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Yearbook  of  the  American 
Shor-t  Storx 

Edited  bx 

Edward  J.  O'Brien 


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THE  BEST  SHORT  STORIES  OF  1917 


THE 

BEST  SHORT  STORIES 

OF  1917 

AND    THE 

YEARBOOK   OF    THE   AMERICAN 
SHORT    STORY 

EDITED    BY 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 

EDITOR   OF  "THE    BEST  SHORT  STORIES  OF    I915," 
"THE   BEST  SHORT  STORIES   OF    I916,"  ETC. 


BOSTON 
SMALL,   MAYNARD   &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by  The  Boston  Transcript  Company 

Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Pictorial  Review  Company,  The  Century  Company, 
Cbaries  Scribner's  Sons,  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company,  Harper  &  Brothers,  The 
Metropolitan  Magazine  Company,  The  Atlantic  Monthly  Company,  The  Crowell 
Publishing  Company,  The  International  Magazine  Company,  The  Pagan  Publishing 
Company,  The  Stratford  Journal,  and  The  Boston  Transcript  Company 

Copyright,  1918,  by  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock,  Thomas  Beer,  Maxwell  Struthers 
Burt,  Francis  Buzzell,  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie,  H.  G.  Dwight,  Edna 
Ferber,  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould,  Susan  Glaspell  Cook,  Frederick  Stuart  Greene, 
Richard  Matthews  Hallet,  Fannie  Hurst,  Fanny  Kemble  Costello,  Burton  Kline, 
Vincent  O'SuUivan,  Lawrence  Perry,  Mary  Brecht  Pulver,  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  and 
Mary  Synon 

Copyright,  1918,  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien 

Copyright,  1918,  by  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  Inc. 


Ui^    -/ 


TO 
WILBUR  DANIEL   STEELE 


BY  WAY  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Grateful  acknowledgment  for  permission  to  include 
the  stories  and  other  material  in  this  volume  is  made 
to  the  following  authors,  editors,  pubHshers,  and  copy- 
right holders: 

To  The  Pictorial  Review  Company  and  Miss  Edwina  Stanton 
Babcock  for  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Excursion,"  first  pub- 
Ushed  in  The  Pictorial  Review;  to  The  Century  Company  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Beer  for  permission  to  reprint  "  Onnie,"  first  published 
in  The  Century  Magazine;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and  Mr. 
Maxwell  Struthers  Burt  for  permission  to  reprint  "  A  Cup  of 
Tea,"  first  published  in  Scribner's  Magazine;  to  The  Pictorial 
Review  Company  and  Mr.  Francis  Buzzell  for  permission  to  re- 
print "  Lonely  Places,"  first  published  in  The  Pictorial  Review;  to 
The  Curtis  Publishing  Company  and  Mr.  Irvin  S.  Cobb  for  per- 
mission to  reprint  "  Boys  Will  Be  Boys,"  first  published  in  The 
Saturday  Evening  Post;  to  Harper  and  Brothers  and  Mr.  Charles 
Caldwell  Dobie  for  permission  to  reprint  "Laughter,"  first  pub- 
lished in  Harper's  Magazine;  to  The  Century  Company  and  Mr. 
H.  G.  Dwight  for  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Emperor  of  Elam," 
first  published  in  The  Century  Magazine;  to  The  Metropolitan  Mag- 
azine Company  and  Miss  Edna  Ferber  for  permission  to  reprint 
"  The  Gay  Old  Dog,"  first  published  in  Tfie  Metropolitan  Magazine; 
to  The  Atlantic  Monthly  Company  and  Mrs.  Katharine  Fullerton 
Gerould  for  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Knight's  Move,"  first 
pubhshed  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly;  to  The  Crowell  Pubhshing 
Company,  the  editor  of  Every  Week,  and  Mrs.  George  Cram  Cook 
for  permission  to  reprint  "  A  Jury  of  Her  Peers,"  by  Susan 
Glaspell,  first  published  in  Every  Week  and  The  Associated  Sunday 
Magazines;  to  The  Century  Company  and  Captain  Frederick 
Stuart  Greene  for  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Bunker  Mouse," 
first  published  in  The  Century  Magazine;  to  Mr.  Paul  R.  Reynolds 
for  confirmation  of  Captain  Greene's  pennissbn;  to  The  Pictorial 


viii  BY  WAY   OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Review  Company  and  Mr.  Richard  Matthews  Hallet  for  permis- 
sion to  reprint  "  Rainbow  Pete,"  first  published  in  The  Pictorial 
Review;  to  The  International  Magazine  Company,  the  editor  of 
The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  and  Miss  Fannie  Hurst  for  permission 
to  reprint  "  Get  Ready  the  Wreaths,"  first  published  in  The 
Cosmopolitan  Magazine;  to  the  editor  of  The  Pagan  and  Mrs. 
Vincent  Cost  el  lo  for  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Strange-Looking 
Man,"  by  Fanny  Kemble  Johnson,  first  pubUshed  in  The  Pagan; 
to  The  Stratford  Journal,  the  editor  of  The  Stratford  Journal, 
and  Mr.  Burton  Kline  for  permission  to  reprint  ",The  Caller  in 
the  Night,"  first  published  in  The  Stratford  Journal;  to  The 
Boston  Transcript  Company  and  Mr.  Vincent  O'SuUivan  for  per- 
mission to  reprint  "  The  Interval,"  first  published  in  The  Boston 
Evening  Transcript;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and  Mr.  Lawrence 
Perry  for  permission  to  reprint  "  '  A  Certain  Rich  Man — ,'  "  first 
published  in  Scribner^s  Magazine;  to  The  Curtis  PubUshing  Com- 
pany and  Mrs.  Mary  Brecht  Pulver  for  permission  to  reprint 
"  The  Path  of  Glory,"  first  published  in  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post;  to  The  Pictorial  Review  Company  and  Mr.  Wilbur  Daniel 
Steele  for  permission  to  reprint  "  Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman,"  first 
published  in  The  Pictorial  Review;  and  to  Harper  and  Brothers 
and  Miss  Mary  Synon  for  permission  to  reprint  "  None  So  Blind," 
first  published  in  Harper^s  Magazine. 

Acknowledgments  are  specially  due  to  The  Boston  Evening 
Transcript  and  The  Bookman  for  permission  to  reprint  the  large 
body  of  material  previously  published  in  their  pages. 

I  wish  specially  to  express  my  gratitude  to  the  fol- 
fowing  who  have  materially  assisted  by  their  efforts  and 
advice  in  making  this  yearbook  of  American  fiction  pos- 
sible and  more  nearly  complete: 

Mrs.  Padraic  Colum,  Mr.  A.  A.  jBoyden,  Mr.  EUery 
Sedgwick,  Mr.  Henry  A.  Bellows,  Mr.  Herman  E.  Cas- 
sino,  Mr.  G.  G.  Wyant,  Mr.  Burton  Kline,  Mr.  Douglas 
Z.  Doty,  Mr.  Barry  Benefield,  Mr.  T.  R.  Smith,  Mr. 
Frederick  Lewis  Allen,  Mr.  Henry  J.  Forman,  Miss 
Honore  Willsie,  Mr.  Harold  Hersey,  Mr.  Bruce  Barton, 
Miss  Bernice  Brown,  Miss  Mariel  Brady,  Mr.  William 
Frederick   Bigelow,    Mr.  John   Chapman   Hilder,  Mr. 


BY   WAY  OF   ACKNOWLEDGMENT  ix 

Thomas  B.  Wells,  Mr.  Lee  Foster  Hartman,  Mr.  Sewell 
Haggard,  Mr.  Samuel  W.  Hippler,  Mr.  Joseph  Bernard 
Rethy,  Mr.  Karl  Edwin  Harriman,  Mr.  Christopher 
Morley,  Miss  Margaret  Anderson,  Mrs.  Hughes  Cornell, 
Miss  Myra  G.  Reed,  Mr.  Merrill  Rogers,  Mr.  Charles 
Hanson  Towne,  Mr.  Carl  Hovey,  Miss  Sonya  Levien, 
Mr.  John  T.  Frederick,  Mr.  Ival  McPeak,  Mr.  Robert 
H.  Davis,  Mrs.  R.  M.  HalloweU,  Mr.  Harold  T.  Pulsifer, 
Mr.  Wyndham  Martyn,  Mr.  Frank  Harris,  Mr.  Robert 
W.  Sneddon,  Miss  Rose  L.  Ellerbe,  Mr.  Arthur  T. 
Vance,  Miss  Jane  Lee,  Mr.  Joseph  Kling,  Mr.  William 
Marion  Reedy,  Mr.  Leo  Pasvolsky,  Mr.  Churchill 
Williams,  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  Mr.  Waldo  Frank,  Mr. 
H.  E.  Maule,  Mr.  Henry  L.  Mencken,  Mr.  Robert 
Thomas  Hardy,  Miss  Anne  Rankin,  Mr.  Henry  T. 
Schnittkind,  Dr.  Isaac  Goldberg,  Mr.  Charles  K.  Field, 
Mrs.  Mary  Fanton  Roberts,  Miss  Sarah  Field  Splint, 
Miss  Mabel  Barker,  Mr.  Hayden  Carruth,  Mrs.  Kath- 
leen Norris,  Mrs.  Ethel  Hoe,  Miss  Mildred  Cram,  Miss 
Dorothea  Lawrance  Mann,  Miss  Hilda  Baker,  Mr. 
William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Mr.  Frank  Owen,  Mr. 
Alexander  Harvey,  Mr.  Seumas  O'Brien,  Madame  Gaston 
Lachaise,  Mr.  John  J.  PhiUips,  Mr.  Sylvester  Baxter, 
Miss  Alice  Brown,  Mr.  Francis  Buzzell,  Mr.  Will  Lev- 
ington  Comfort,  Mr.  Robert  A.  Parker,  Mr.  Randolph 
Edgar,  Miss  Augusta  B.  Fowler,  Captain  Frederick 
Stuart  Greene,  Mr.  Emanuel  Haldeman-JuHus,  Mr. 
Reginald  Wright  Kauffman,  Mr.  J.  B.  Kerfoot,  Mrs. 
Elsie  S.  Lewars,  Miss  Jeannette  Marks,  Mr.  W.  M.  Clay- 
ton, Mr.  Vincent  O'Sullivan,  Mr.  Henry  Wallace  Phil- 
lips, Mr.  Melville  Davisson  Post,  Mr.  John  D.  Sabine, 
Mr.  Richard  Barker  Shelton,  Mrs.  A.  M.  Scruggs,  Miss 
May  Selley,  Mr.  Daniel  J.  Shea,  Mr.  Vincent  Starrett, 
Mr.  M.  M.  Stearns,  Mrs.  Ann  Watkins,  Dr.  Blanche 


X  BY   WAY    OF   ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Colton  Williams,  Mr.  Edward  P.  Nagel,  Mr.  G»  Hum- 
phrey, Rev.  J.-F.  Raiche,  Mr.  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele, 
Miss  Louise  Rand  Bascom,  Mr.  Octavus  Roy  Cohen, 
Mr.  Robert  Cumberland,  Mr.  Charles  Divine,  Mr.  Frank 
C.  Dodd,  Mr.  William  R.  Kane,  Mr.  David  Gibson, 
Miss  Ida  Warren  Gould,  Miss  Ella  E.  Hirsch,  Miss 
Marie  Louise  Kinsella,  Mr.  Frank  E.  Lohn,  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet Medbury,  Miss  Anna  Mitchell,  Mr.  Robert  W. 
Neal,  Mr.  Edwin  Carty  Ranck,  Miss  Anne  B.  Schultze, 
Mrs,  Celia  Baldwin  Whitehead,  Mr.  Horatio  Winslow, 
Miss  Kate  Buss,  Mrs.  E.  B.  Dewing,  Mr.  A.  E.  Dingle, 
Mr.  Edmund  R.  Brown,  Mr.  George  Gilbert,  Mr.  Harry 
E.  Jergens,  Mr.  Eric  Levison,  Mr.  Robert  McBlair,  Mrs. 
Vivien  C.  Mackenzie,  Mr.  W.  W.  Norman,  Rev.  Wilbur 
Fletcher  Steele,  Mrs.  EHzabeth  C.  A.  Smith,  Captain 
Achmed  Abdullah,  Mr.  H.  H.  Howland,  Mr.  Howard  W. 
Cook,  Mr.  Newton  A.  Fuessle,  Mr.  B.  Guilbert  Guerney, 
Mr.  William  H.  Briggs,  Mr.  Francis  Garrison,  Mr. 
Albert  J.  KUnck,  Mr.  AKred  A.  Knopf,  Miss  Mary 
Lerner,  Mr.  H.  F.  Jenkins,  Mr.  Guy  Holt,  Mr.  H.  S. 
Latham,  Mr.  H.  L.  Pangborn,  Miss  Maisie  Prim,  Mr. 
S.  Edgar  Briggs,  Mr.  William  Morrow,  Mr.  Sherwood 
Anderson,  Hon.  W.  Andrews,  Miss  Edwina  Stanton  Bab- 
cock,  Mr.  Thomas  Beer,  Mrs.  Fleta  Campbell  Springer, 
Miss  Sarah  N.  C leghorn,  Mr.  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  Miss  AUce 
Cowdery,  Miss  Bertha  Helen  Crabbe,  Mr.  H.  G.  Dwight, 
Miss  Edna  Ferber,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Irons  Folsom,  Miss 
Ellen  Glasgow,  Mrs.  George  Cram  Cook,  Mr.  Armistead 
C.  Gordon,  Miss  Fannie  Hurst,  Mrs.  Vincent  Costello, 
Mrs.  E.  Clement  Jones,  Mrs.  Gerald  Stanley  Lee,  Mr. 
Addison  Lewis,  Mr.  Edison  Marshall,  Mr.  Edgar  Lee 
Masters,  Miss  Gertrude  Nafe,  Mr.  Meredith  Nicholson, 
Mr.  Harvey  J.  O'Higgins,  Mr.  Lawrence  Perry,  Mrs. 
Olive  Higgins  Prouty,  Mrs.  Mary  Brecht  Pulver,  Mr. 


BY  WAY  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  xi 

Benjamin  Rosenblatt,  Mr.  Herman  Schneider,  Professor 
Grant  Showerman,  Miss  Mary  Synon,Mrs.  MaryHeaton 
O'Brien,  Mr.  George  Weston,  and  especially  to  Mr. 
Francis  J.  Hannigan,  to  whom  I  owe  invaluable  co- 
operation in  ways  too  numerous  to  mention. 

I  shall  be  grateful  to  my  readers  for  corrections,  and 
particularly  for  suggestions  leading  to  the  wider  useful- 
ness of  this  annual  volume.  In  particular,  I  shall  wel- 
come the  receipt,  from  authors,  editors,  and  pubHshers, 
of  stories  published  during  1918  which  have  qualities 
of  distinction,  and  yet  are  not  printed  in  periodicals 
falHng  under  my  regular  notice.  It  is  also  my  intention 
during  1918  to  review  all  volumse  of  short  stories  pub- 
hshed  during  that  year  in  the  United  States.  All  com- 
munications and  volumes  submitted  for  review  in  "The 
Best  Short  Stories  of  1918"  may  be  addressed  to  me 
at  South  Yarmouth,  Massachusetts.  For  such  assistance. 
I  shall  make  due  and  grateful  acknowledgment  in  next 
year's  annual. 

If  I  have  been  guilty  of  any  omissions  in  these  ac- 
knowledgments, it  is  quite  unintentional,  and.  I  trust 
that  I  shall  be  absolved  for  my  good  intentions. 

E.  J.  O. 


CONTENTS* 

Page 
Introduction.   By  the  Editor xvii 

The  Excursion.   By  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock  ...         i 
(From  The  Pictorial  Review) 

Onnie.   By  Thomas  Beer 20 

(From  The  Century  Magazine) 

A  Cup  of  Tea.    By  Maxwell  Stnithers  Burt  ....       45 
(From  Scribner's  Magazine) 

Lonely  Places.   By  Francis  Buzzell 70 

(From  The  Pictorial  Review) 

Boys  Will  Be  Boys.   By  Irvin  S.  Cobb 86 

(From  The  Saturday  Evening  Post) 

Laughter.    By  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie 128 

(From  Harper's  Magazine) 

The  Emperor  of  Elam.    By  H.  G.  Dwight  ....     147 
(From  The  Century  Magazine) 

The  Gay  Old  Dog.   By  Edna  Ferber 208 

(From  The  Metropolitan  Magazine) 

The  Knight's  Move.  By  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould     234 
(From  The  Atlantic  Monthly) 

A  Jury  of  Her  Peers.   By  Susan  Glaspell  ....     256 

(From  Every  Week) 

The  Bunker  Mouse.    By  Frederick  Stuart  Greene  .     283 
(From  The  Century  Magazine) 

Rainbow  Pete.   By  Richard  Matthews  Hallet   .    .    .     307 

(From  The  Pictorial  Review) 

Get  Ready  the  Wreaths.    By  Fannie  Hurst    ...     326 

(From  The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine) 

*  The  order  in  which  the  stories  in  this  volume  are  printed  is  not 
intended  as  an  indication  of  their  comparative  excellence;  the  arrange- 
ment is  alphabetical  by  authors. 


.  xiv  CONTENTS 

Page 
The   Strange-Looking   Man.     By  Fanny  Kemble 

Johnson 361 

(From  The  Pagan) 

The  Caller  in  the  Night.   By  Burton  Kline .    .    .     365 

(From  The  Stratford  Journal) 

The  Interval.   By  Vincent  O'SuUivan 383 

(From  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript) 

"A  Certain  Rich  Man — ."   By  Lawrence  Perry  .    .     391 

(From  Scribner's  Magazine) 

The  Path  of  Glory.   By  Mary  Brecht  Pulver .    .    .     412 

(From  The  Saturday  Evening  Post) 

Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman.   By  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele    441 
(From  The  Pictorial  Review) 

None  So  Blind.   By  Mary  Synon 468 

(From  Harper's  Magazine) 

The   Yearbook   of   the  American   Short   Story 

for  1917 483 

Addresses  of  American  Magazines  Publishing  Short 

Stories 485 

The  Biographical  Roll  of  Honor  of  American  Short 

Stories  for  1917 487 

The  Roll  of  Honor  of  Foreign  Short  Stories  in 

American  Magazines  for  19 17 506 

The  Best  Books  of  Short  Stories  of  191 7:   A  Criti- 
cal Summary 509 

Voliunes  of  Short  Stories  Published  During  1917: 
An  Index 521 

The  Best  Sixty-three  American  Short  Stories  of 

1917:   A  Critical  Siunmary 530 

Magazine  Averages  for  1917 541 

Index  of  Short  Stories  for  19 17     .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .     544 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

A  year  ago,  in  the  introduction  to  "  The  Best  Short 
Stories  of  1916,"  I  pointed  out  that  the  American  short 
story  cannot  be  reduced  to  a  Hterary  formula,  because 
the  art  in  which  it  finds  its  concrete  -embodiment  is  a 
growing  art.  The  critic,  when  he  approaches  American 
literature,  cannot  regard  it  as  he  can  regard  any  foreign 
literature.  Setting  aside  the  question  of  whether  our 
cosmopolitan  population,  with  its  widely  different  kinds 
of  racial  heritage,  is  at  an  advantage  or  a  disadvantage 
because  of  its  conflicting  traditions,  we  must  accept  the 
variety  in  substance  and  attempt  to  find  in  it  a  new  kind 
of  national  unity,  hitherto  unknown  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  The  message  voiced  in  President  Wilson's  words 
on  several  occasions  during  the  past  year  is  a  true  re- 
flection of  the  message  implicit  in  American  literature. 
Various  in  substance,  it  finds  its  unity  in  the  new  freedom 
of  democracy,  and  English  and  French,  German  and 
Slav,  Italian  and  Scandinavian  bring  to  the  common 
melting-pot  ideals  which  are  fused  in  a  national  unity 
of  democratic  utterance. 

It  is  inevitable,  therefore,  that  in  this  stage  of  our 
national  literary  development,  our  newly  conscious  speech 
lacks  the  sophisticated  technique  of  older  literatures. 
But,  perhaps  because  of  this  very  limitation,  it  is  much 
more  alert  to  the  variety  and  life  of  the  human  substance 
with  which  it  deals.  It  does  not  take  the  whole  of  life 
for  granted  and  it  often  reveals  the  fresh  naivete  of 
childhood  in  its  discovery  of  life.  When  its  sophistica- 
tion is  complete,  it  is  the  sophistication  of  English  rather 
than  of  American  literature,  and  is  derivative  rather  than 
original,  for  the  most  part,  in  its  criticism  of  life.  I  would 
specifically  except,  however,  from  this  criticism  the  work 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  three  writers,  at  least,  whose  sophistication  is  the 
embodiment  of  a  new  American  technique.  Katharine 
Fullerton  Gerould,  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  and  H.  G. 
Dwight  have  each  attained  a  distinction  in  our  contem- 
porary literature  which  places  them  at  the  head  of  their 
craft. 

During  the  past  year  there  has  been  much  pessimistic 
criticism  of  the  American  short  story,  some  of  it  by 
Americans,  and  some  by  Europeans  who  are  now  re- 
siding in  our  midst.  To  the  European  mind,  trained  in  a 
tradition  where  technique  in  story- writing  is  paramount, 
it  is  natural  that  the  American  short  story  should  seem 
to  reveal  grave  deficiencies.  I  am  by  no  means  disposed 
to  minimize  the  weakness  of  American  craftsmanship, 
but  I  feel  that  at  the  present  stage  of  our  literary  de- 
velopment, discouragement  will  prove  a  very  easy  and 
fatal  thing.  The  typical  point  of  view  of  the  European 
critic,  when  justified,  is  adequately  reflected  in  an  article 
by  Mary  M.  Colum,  which  was  published  in  the  Dial 
last  spring :  "  Those  of  us  who  take  an  interest  in  literary 
history  will  remember  how  particular  literary  forms  at 
times  seize  hold  of  a  country:  in  Elizabethan  England, 
it  was  the  verse  drama ;  in  the  eighteenth  century,  it  was 
the  essay ;  in  Scandinavia  of  a  generation  ago,  it  was  the 
drama  again.  At  present  America  is  in  the  grip  of  the 
short  story  —  so  thoroughly  in  its  grip  indeed  that,  in 
addition  to  all  the  important  writers,  nearly  all  the  lit- 
erate population  who  are  not  writing  movie  scenarios 
are  writing  or  are  about  to  write  short  stories.  One 
reason  for  this  is  the  general  belief  that  this  highly 
sophisticated  and  subtle  art  is  a  means  for  making  money 
in  spare  time,  and  so  one  finds  everybody,  from  the  man 
who  solicits  insurance  to  the  barber  who  sells  hair-tonics, 
engaged  in  writing,  or  in  taking  courses  in  the  writing, 
of  short  stories.  Judging  from  what  appears  in  the 
magazines,  one  imagines  that  they  get  their  efforts  ac- 
cepted. There  is  no  doubt  that  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
and  the  candle-stick  maker  are  easily  capable  of  pro- 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

dndng  the  current  short  stories  with  the  aids  now 
afforded." 

Now  this  is  the  heart  of  the  matter  with  which  crit- 
icism has  to  deal.  It  is  regrettable  that  the  American 
magazine  editor  is  not  more  mindful  of  his  high  calling, 
but  the  tremendous  advertising  development  of  the 
American  magazine  has  bound  American  literature  in 
the  chains  of  commercialism,  and  before  a  permanent 
literary  criticism  of  the  American  short  story  can  be 
established,  we  must  fight  to  break  these  bonds.  I  con- 
ceive it  to  be  my  essential  function  to  begin  at  the  bottom 
and  record  the  first  signs  of  grace,  rather  than  to  limit 
myself  to  the  top  and  write  critically  about  work  which 
will  endure  with  or  without  criticism.  If  American 
critics  would  devote  their  attention  for  ten  years  to  this 
spade  work,  they  might  not  win  so  much  honor,  but  we 
should  find  the  atmosphere  clearer  at  the  end  of  that 
period  for  the  true  exercise  of  literary  criticism. 

Nevertheless  I  contend  that  there  is.  much  fine  work 
being  accomplished  at  present,  which  is  buried  in  the 
ruck  of  the  interminable  commonplace.  I  regard  it  as 
my  duty  to  chronicle  this  work,  and  thus  render  it  ac- 
cessible for  others  to  discuss. 

Mrs.  Colum  continues :  "  Apart  from  the  interesting 
experiments  in  free  verse  or  polyphonic  prose,  the  short 
story  in  America  is  at  a  low  ebb.  Magazine  editors  will 
probably  say  the  blame  rests  with  their  readers.  This 
may  be  so,  but  do  people  really  read  the  long,  dreary 
stories  of  from  five  to  nine  thousand  words  which  the 
average  American  magazine  editor  publishes?  Why  a 
vivid  people  like  the  American  should  be  so  dusty  and 
dull  in  their  short  stories  is  a  lasting  puzzle  to  the  Euro- 
pean, who  knows  that  America  has  produced  a  large 
proportion  of  the  great  short  stories  of  the  world." 

I  deny  that  the  American  short  story  is  at  a  low  ebb, 
and  I  offer  the  present  volume  as  a  revelation  of  the  best 
that  is  now  being  done  in  this  field.  I  agree  with  Mrs. 
Colum  that  the  best  stories  are  only  to  be  found  after  a 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

laborious  dusty  search,  but  this  is  the  proof  rather  than 
the  refutation  of  my  position. 

Despite  the  touch  of  paradox,  Mrs.  Colum  makes  two 
admirable  suggestions  to  remedy  this  condition  of  affairs. 
"  A  few  magazine  editors  could  do  a  great  deal  to  raise 
the  level  of  the  American  short  story.  They  could  at  once 
eradicate  two  of  the  things  that  cause  a  part  of  the  evil  — 
the  wordiness  and  the  commercial  standardization  of  the 
story.  By  declining  short  stories  over  three  thousand 
words  long,  and  by  refusing  to  pay  more  than  a  hundred 
dollars  for  any  short  story,  they  could  create  a  new 
standard  and  raise  both  the  prestige  of  the  short  story 
and  of  their  magazines.  They  would  then  get  the  im- 
aginative writers,  and  not  the  exploiters  of  a  commercial 
article." 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  average  American  editor  wishes 
to  welcome  the  imaginative  writer,  but  assuming  this  to 
be  true,  I  would  modify  Mrs.  Colum's  suggestions  and 
propose  that,  except  in  an  unusual  instance,  the  short 
story  should  be  limited  to  five  thousand  words,  and  that 
the  compensation  for  it  should  not  exceed  three  hundred 
dollars. 

To  repeat  what  I  have  said  in  previous  volumes  of 
this  series,  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader  as  yet  unac- 
quainted with  my  standards  and  principles  of  selection, 
I  shall  point  out  that  I  have  set  myself  the  task  of  dis- 
engaging the  essential  human  qualities  in  our  contempo- 
rary fiction  which,  when  chronicled  conscientiously  by 
our  literary  artists,  may  fairly  be  called  a  criticism  of  life. 
I  am  not  at  all  interested  in  formulae,  and  organized 
criticism  at  its  best  would  be  nothing  more  than  dead 
criticism,  as  all  dogmatic  interpretation  of  life  is  always 
dead.  What  has  interested  me,  to  the  exclusion  of  other 
things,  is  the  fresh  living  current  which  flows  through 
the  best  of  our  work,  and  the  psychological  and  im- 
aginative reality  which  our  writers  have  conferred 
upon  it. 

No  substance  is  of  importance  in  fiction,  unless  it  is 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

organic  substance,  that  is  to  say,  substance  in  which  the 
pulse  of  life  is  beating.  Inorganic  fiction  has  been  our 
curse  in  the  past,  and  bids  fair  to  remain  so,  unless  we 
exercise  much  greater  artistic "  discrimination  than  we 
display  at  present. 

During  the  past  year  I  have  sought  to  select  from  the 
stories  published  in  American  magazines  those  which 
have  rendered  life  imaginatively  in  organic  substance 
and  artistic  form.  As  the  most  adequate  means  to  this 
end,  I  have  taken  each  short  story  by  itself,  and  ex- 
amined it  impartially.  I  have  done  my  best  to  surrender 
myself  to  the  writer's  point  of  view,  and  granting  his 
choice  of  material  and  personal  interpretation  of  its  value, 
have  sought  to  test  it  by  the  double  standard  of  substance 
and  form.  Substance  is  something  achieved  by  the  artist 
in  every  act  of  creation,  rather  than  something  already 
present,  and  accordingly  a  fact  or  group  of  facts  in  a 
story  only  obtain  substantial  embodiment  when  the  artist's 
power  of  compelling  imaginative  persuasion  transforms 
them  into  a  living  truth.  The  first  test  of  a  short  story, 
therefore,  in  any  qualitative  analysis  is  to  report  upon 
how  vitally  compelling  the  writer  makes  his  selected 
facts  or  incidents.  This  test  may  be  known  as  the  test 
of  substance. 

But  a  second  test  is  necessary  if  a  story  is  to  take  high 
rank  above  other  stories.  The  true  artist  will  seek  to 
shape  this  living  substance  into  the  most  beautiful  and 
satisfying  form,  by  skilful  selection  and  arrangement 
of  his  material,  and  by  the  most  direct  and  appealing 
presentation  of  it  in  portrayal  and  characterization. 

The  short  stories  which  I  have  examined  in  this  study, 
as  in  previous  years,  have  fallen  naturally  into  four 
groups.  The  first  group  consists  of  those  stories  which 
fail,  in  my  opinion,  to  survive  either  the  test  of  substance 
or  the  test  of  form.  These  stories  are  listed  in  the  year- 
book without  comment  or  a  qualifying  asterisk.  The 
second  group  consists  of  those  stories  which  may  fairly 
claim  that  thev  survive  either  the  test  of  substance  or 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

the  test  of  form.  Each  of  these  stories  may  claim  to 
possess  either  distinction  of  technique  alone,  or  more  fre- 
quently, I  am  glad  to  say,  a  persuasive  sense  of  life  in 
them  to  which  a  reader  responds  with  some  part  of  his 
own  experience.  Stories  included  in  this  group  are  in- 
dicated in  the  year-book  index  by  a  single  asterisk  pre- 
fixed to  the  title.  The  third  group,  which  is  composed 
of  stories  of  still  greater  distinction,  includes  such  nar- 
ratives as  may  lay  convincing  claim  to  a  second  reading, 
because  each  of  them  has  survived  both  tests,  the  test  of 
substance  and  the  test  of  form.  Stories  included  in  this 
group  are  indicated  in  the  year-book  index  by  two 
asterisks  prefixed  to  the  title. 

Finally,  I  have  recorded  the  names  of  a  small  group 
of  stories  which  possess,  I  believe,  an  even  finer  distinc- 
tion —  the  distinction  of  uniting  genuine  substance  and 
artistic  form  in  a  closely  woven  pattern  with  such  sin- 
cerity that  these  stories  may  fairly  claim  a  position  in  our 
literature.  If  all  of  these  stories  by  American  authors 
were  republished,  they  would  not  occupy  more  space 
than  six  average  novels.  My  selection  of  them  does  not 
imply  the  critical  belief  that  they  are  great  stories.  It  is 
simply  to  be  taken  as  meaning  that  I  have  found  the 
equivalent  of  six  volumes  worthy  of  republication 
among  all  the  stories  published  during  191 7.  These 
stories  are  indicated  in  the  year-book  index  by  three 
asterisks  prefixed  to  the  title,  and  are  listed  in  the  special 
"  Rolls  of  Honor."  In  compiling  these  lists,  I  have  per- 
mitted no  personal  preference  or  prejudice  to  influence 
my  judgment  consciously  for  or  against  a  story.  To  the 
titles  of  certain  stories,  however,  in  the  American  "  Roll 
of  Honor,"  an  asterisk  is  prefixed,  and  this  asterisk,  I 
must  confess,  reveals  in  some  measure  a  personal  pref- 
erence. It  is  from  this  final  short  list  that  the  stories 
reprinted  in  this  volume  have  been  selected. 

It  has  been  a  point  of  honor  with  me  not  to  republish 
an  English  story,  nor  a  translation  from  a  foreign  author. 
I  have  also  made  it  a  rule  not  to  include  more  than  one 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

story  by  an  individual  author  in  the  volume.  The  gen- 
eral and  particular  results  of  my  study  will  be  found 
explained  and  carefully  detailed  in  the  supplementary 
part  of  the  volume. 

The  Yearbook  for  191 7  contains  three  new  features. 
The  Roll  of  Honor  of  American  Short  Stories  includes 
a  short  biographical  sketch  of  each  author;  a  selection 
from  the  volumes  of  short  stories  published  during  the 
past  year  is  reviewed  at  some  length ;  and,  in  response 
to  numerous  requests,  a  list  of  American  magazines 
publishing  short  stories,  with  their  editorial  addresses, 
has  been  compiled. 

Wilbur  Daniel  Steele  and  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould 
are  still  at  the  head  of  their  craft.  But  during  the  past 
year  the  ten  published  stories  by  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt 
and  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie  seem  to  promise  a  future  in 
our  literature  of  equal  importance  to  the  later  work  of 
these  writers.  Sherwood  Anderson  and  Waldo  Frank 
emerge  as  writers  with  a  great  deal  of  importance  to  say, 
although  they  have  not  yet  fully  mastered  the  art  of 
saying  it.  The  three  new  short  story  writers  who  show 
most  promise  are  Gertrude  Nafe  and  Thomas  Beer,  whose 
first  stories  appeared  in  the  Century  Magazine  during 
1917,  and  Elizabeth  Stead  Taber,  whose  story,  "  The 
Scar,"  when  it  appeared  in  the  Seven  Arts,  attracted 
much  favorable  comment.  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock  and 
Lee  Foster  Hartman  have  both  published  memorable 
stories,  and  "  The  Interval,"  which  was  Vincent  O'Sulli- 
van's  sole  contribution  to  an  American  periodical  during 
191 7,  compels  us  to  wonder  why  an  artist,  for  whom  men 
of  such  widely  different  temperaments  as  Lionel  Johnson, 
Remy  de  Gourmont,  and  Edward  Gamett  had  high 
critical  esteem,  finds  the  American  public  so  indifferent 
to  his  art. 

Addison  Lewis  has  published  during  the  past  year  a 
series  of  stories  in  Reedy 's  Mirror  which  have  more  of 
O.  Henry's  magic  than  the  thousand  writers  who  have 
endeavored  to  imitate  him  to  the  everlasting  injury  of 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

American  literature.  Frederick  Stuart  Greene,  in  "  The 
Bunker  Mouse  ''  and  "  Molly  McGuire,  Fourteen,"  shows 
marked  literary  development,  and  reinforces  my  belief 
that  in  him  we  have  an  important  new  story-teller.  I 
suppose  the  best  war  story  of  the  year  is  "  The  Flying 
Teuton,"  by  Alice  Brown,  soon  to  be  reprinted  in  book 
form. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  an  effect  of  the  war  or  not, 
but  during  1917,  even  more  than  during  1916,  American 
magazines  have  been  almost  absolutely  devoid  of  humor. 
Save  for  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  on  whom  the  mantle  of  Mark 
Twain  has  surely  fallen,  and  for  Seumas  O'Brien,  whom 
Mr.  Dooley  must  envy,  I  have  found  American  fiction  to 
be  sufficiently  solemn  and  imperturbable. 

I  need  not  emphasize  again  the  fine  art  of  Fannie  Hurst. 
Two  years  ago  Mr.  Howells  stated  more  truly  than  I  can 
the  significance  of  her  work.  Comparing  her  with  two 
other  contemporaries,  he  wrote :  "  Miss  Fannie  Hurst 
shows  the  same  artistic  quality,  the  same  instinct  for 
reality,  the  same  confident  recognition  of  the  superficial 
cheapness  and  commonness  of  the  stuff  she  handles;  but 
in  her  stories  she  also  attests  the  right  to  be  named  with 
them  for  the  gift  of  penetrating  to  the  heart  of  life.  No 
one  with  the  love  of  the  grotesque  which  is  the  American 
portion  of  the  human  tastes  or  passions,  can  fail  of  his 
joy  in  the  play  of  the  obvious  traits  and  motives  of  her 
Hebrew  comedy,  but  he  will  fail  of  something  precious 
if  he  does  not  sound  the  depths  of  true  and  beautiful 
feeling  which  underlies  the  comedy." 

A  similar  distinction  marks  Edna  Ferber's  story  en- 
titled "  The  Gay  Old  Dog." 

Of  the  English  short  story  writers  who  have  published 
during  the  past  year  in  American  periodicals,  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy has  presented  the  most  evenly  distinguished  work. 
Hardly  second  to  his  best  are  the  six  stories  by  J.  D. 
Beresford  and  D.  H.  Lawrence,  both  well  known  realists 
of  the  younger  generation.  Stacy  Aumonier  has  con- 
tinued the  promise  of  "  The  Friends  "  with  three  new 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

stories  written  in  the  same  key.  Although  the  vein  of 
his  talent  is  a  narrow  one^  it  reveals  pure  gold.  Good 
Housekeeping  has  published  three  war  stories  by  an 
Englishwoman,  I.  A.  R.  Wylie,  which  I  should  have 
coveted  for  this  book  had  they  been  by  an  American 
author.  But  perhaps  the  best  English  short  story  of  the 
year  in  an  American  magazine  was  "  The  GDming  of  the 
Terror,"  by  Arthur  Machen,  since  republished  in  book 
form. 

Elsewhere  I  have  discussed  at  some  length  the  more 
important  volumes  of  short  stories  published  during  the 
year.  "  A  Munster  Twilight,"  by  Daniel  Corkery  is  alone 
sufficient  to  mark  a  notable  literary  year.  And  "  The 
Echo  of  Voices,"  by  Richard  Curie  is  hardly  second  to 
it.  Yet  the  year  has  seen  the  publication  of  at  least  three 
other  books  by  English  authors  who  are  new  to  the  read- 
ing public.  Thomas  Burke,  Caradoc  Evans,  and  Arthur 
Machen  have  added  permanent  contributions  to  English 
literature. 

In  "  A  Handbook  on  Story  Writing,"  Dr.  Blanche 
Colton  Williams  has  written  the  first  definitive  textbook 
on  the  subject.  Its  many  predecessors  have  either  been 
content  to  deal  with  narrow  branches  in  the  same  field,  or 
have  exploited  quite  frankly  and  shamelessly  the  com- 
mercial possibilities  of  story  writing  as  a  cheap  trade. 
Dr.  Williams's  book  will  not  be  in  all  likelihood  super- 
seded for  many  years  to  come,  and  the  effects  of  her  work- 
are  already  to  be  seen  in  the  short  stories  of  many  estab- 
lished writers. 

In  the  death  of  Edward  Thomas,  England  has  lost  a 
rare  artist  who,  in  his  particular  field,  was  only  rivalled 
by  Richard  Jefferies. 

During  the  past  year  the  Seven  Arts  and  the  Masses 
have  ceased  publication.  The  Craftsman,  which  ceased 
publication  a  year  ago,  has  been  succeeded  by  the  Touch- 
stone, which  is  already  beginning  to  print  many  interest- 
ing stories;  and  to  the  list  of  magazines  which  publish 
short  stories  must  now  be  welcomed  the  Bookman. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

As  it  has  been  my  happiness  in  past  years  to  associate 
this  annual  with  the  names  of  Benjamin  Rosenblatt  and 
Richard  Matthews  Hallet,  whose  stories,  "  Zelig "  and 
"  Making  Port,"  seemed  to  me  respectively  the  best  short 
stories  of  191 5  and  1916,  so  it  is  my  pleasure  and  honor 
this  year  to  dedicate  the  best  that  I  have  found  in  the 
American  magazines  as  the  fruit  of  my  labors  to  Wilbur 
Daniel  Steele,  who  has  contributed  to  American  literature, 
preeminently  in  "Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman,"  and  almost  as 
finely  in  "  White  Hands  "  and  "  The  Woman  At  Seven 
Brothers,"  three  stories  which  take  their  place  for  finality, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  in  the  great  English  line. 


Edward  J.  O'Brien. 


SoxTTH  Yarmouth,  Massachusetts, 
December  23,  191 7. 


THE  BEST  SHORT  STORIES  OF  1917 


Note.  The  twenty  stories  which  follow  are  ar- 
ranged in  the  alphabetical  order  of  their  authors' 
names.  This  arrangement  does  not  imply  any  pre- 
cedence in  merit  of  particular  stories. 


THE  EXCURSION' 

By  EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK 

From  Tlie  Pictorial  Review 

MRS.  TUTTLE  arrived  breathless,  bearing  a  large 
gilt  parrot-cage.  She  swept  up  the  gangway  of 
the  Fall  of  Rome  and  was  enthusiastically  received. 
There  were,  however,  concealed  titterings  and  sup- 
pressed whispers.  "  My  sakes  !  She's  went  and  brought 
that  bird." 

"  I  won't  believe  it  till  I  see  it." 

"  There  he  sets  in  his  gold  coop." 

Mrs.  Tuttle  brought  Romeo  to  the  excursion  with  the 
same  assurance  that  a  woman  of  another  stamp  brings 
her  Pekingese  dog  to  a  restaurant  table.  While  the  Fall 
of  Rome  sounded  a  warning  whistle,  and  hawsers  were 
loosed  she  adjusted  her  veil  and  took  cognizance  of  fel- 
low passengers. 

In  spite  of  wealth  and  "  owning  her  own  automobile," 
Mrs.  Tuttle's  fetish  was  democratic  popularity.  She 
greeted  one  after  another. 

"  How  do,  Mis'  Bridge,  and  Mister,  too !  Who's 
keeping  store  while  you're  away? 

"  Carrie  Turpin !  You  here  ?  Where's  Si  ?  Couldn't 
come?  Now  that's  too  had!"  After  a  long  stare, 
"You're  some  fleshier,  ain't  you,  Carrie?" 

A  large  woman  in  a  tan-colored  linen  duster  came 
slowly  down  the  deck,  a  camp-stool  in  either  hand.  Her 
portly  advance  was  intercepted  by  Mrs.  Tuttle. 

t  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Pictorial  Review  Company.  Copyright,  1918, 
by  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock. 

I 


2  THE  EXCURSION 

"  Mis'  Tinneray !     Same  as  ever !  " 

Mrs.  Tinneray  dropped  the  camp-stools  and  adjusted 
her  smoked  glasses ;  she  gave  a  start  and  the  two  ladies 
embraced. 

Mrs.  Tuttle  said  that  "  it  beat  all,"  and  Mrs.  Tinneray 
said  "  she  never ! " 

Mrs.  Tuttle,  emerged  from  the  embrace,  re-adjusting 
her  hat  with  many-ringed  fingers,  inquiring,  "  How's  the 
folks?" 

Up  lumbered  Mr.  Tinneray,  a  large  man  with  a 
chuckle  and  pale  eyes,  who  was  introduced  by  the  well- 
known  formula,  "  Mis'  Tuttle,  Mr.  Tinneray,  Mr.  Tin- 
neray, Mis'  Tuttle." 

The  Tinnerays  said,  "  So  you  brought  the  bird  along, 
hey  ?  "  Then,  without  warning,  all  conversation  ceased. 
The  Fall  of  Rome,  steaming  slowly  away  from  the  pier, 
whistled  a  sodden  whistle,  the  flags  flapped,  every  one 
realized  that  the  excursion  had  really  begun. 

This  excursion  was  one  of  the  frank  disi)lays  of  human 
hopes,  yearnings,  and  vanities,  that  sometimes  take  place 
on  steamboats.  Feathers  had  a  hectic  brilliancy  that 
proved  secret,  dumb  longings.  Pendants  known  as 
"  lavaleers  "  hung  from  necks  otherwise  innocent  of  the 
costly  fopperies  of  Versailles.  Old  ladies  clad  in  princess 
dresses  with  yachting  caps  worn  rakishly  on  their  grey 
hair,  vied  with  other  old  ladies  in  automobile  bonnets, 
who,  with  opera  glasses,  searched  out  the  meaning  of 
every  passing  buoy.  Young  girls  carrying  "  mesh-bags," 
that  subtle  connotation  of  the  feminine  character,  ex- 
tracted tooth-picks  from  them  or  searched  for  bits  of 
chewing  gum  among  their  over  scented  treasures. 

As  it  was  an  excursion,  the  Fall  of  Rome  carried  a 
band  and  booths  laden  with  many  delicious  superfluities 
such  as  pop-corn  and  the  misleading  compound  known 
as  "  salt-water  taffy."  There  were,  besides,  the  blue  and 
red  pennants  that  always  go  on  excursions,  and  the  yel- 
low and  pink  fly-flappers  that  always  come  home  from 
them ;  also  there  were  stacks  of  whistle-whips  and  slender 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABGOCK  3 

canes  with  ivory  heads  with  little  holes  pierced  through. 
These  canes  were  bought  only  by  cjmical  young  men 
whose  new  straw  hats  were  fastened  to  their  persons  by 
thin  black  strings.  Each  young  man,  after  purchasing 
an  ivory-headed  cane  retired  to  privacy  to  squint  through 
it  undisturbed.  Emerging  from  this  privacy  the  young 
man  would  then  confer  with  other  young  men.  What 
these  joyless  young  men  saw  when  they  squinted  they 
never  revealed.  But  among  their  elders  they  spread 
the  strong  impression  that  it  was  the  Capital  at  Washing- 
ton or  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 

Besides  bottled  soda  and  all  soft  drinks  the  Fall  of 
Rome  carried  other  stimuli  in  the  shape  of  comic  gen- 
tlemen —  such  beings,  as,  more  or  less  depressed  in  their 
own  proper  environment,  on  excursions  suddenly  see 
themselves  in  their  true  light,  irresistibly  facetious. 
These  funny  gentlemen,  mostly  husbands,  seated  them- 
selves near  to  large  groups  of  indulgent  women  and 
kept  up  an  exquisite  banter  directed  at  each  other's  per- 
sonal defects,  or  upon  the  idiosyncrasies  of  any  bachelor 
or  spinster  near.  These  funny  gentlemen  kept  alluding 
to  the  excursion  as  the  "  Exertion."  If  the  boat  rolled 
a  little  they  said,  "  Now,  Mother,  don't  rock  the  boat." 

*'  Here,  girls,  sit  up  close,  we'll  all  go  down  to- 
gether." 

"  Hold  on  to  yer  beau,  Minnie.  He'll  fall  overboard 
and  where'U  you  git  another  ? " 

The  peals  of  laughter  at  these  sallies  were  unfailing. 
The  crunch  of  peanuts  was  unfailing.  The  band,  with 
a  sort  of  plethoric  indulgence,  played  slow  waltzes  in 
which  the  bass  instruments  frequently  misapplied  notes, 
but  to  the  allure  of  which  came  youthful  dancers  lovely 
in  proud  awkward  poses. 

Mrs.  Tuttle  meanwhile  was  the  social  center,  demon- 
strating that  mysterious  psychic  force  known  as  being 
the  "  life  of  the  party."  She  advanced  upon  a  tall  sal- 
low woman  in  mourning,  challenging,  "  Now  Mis' 
Mealer,  why  don't  you  just  set  and  take  a  little  comfort, 


4  THE  EXCURSION 

it  won't  cost  you  nothing?  Ain't  that  your  girl  over 
there  by  the  coffee  fountain?  I  should  ha'  known  her 
by  the  reesemblance  to  you;  she's  rill  refined  lookin'." 

Mrs.  Mealer,  a  tall,  sallow  widow  with  carefully  main- 
tained mourning  visage,  admitted  that  this  was  so.  Re- 
finement, she  averred,  was  in  the  family,  but  she  hinted 
at  some  obscure  ailment  which,  while  it  made  Emma 
refined,  kept  her  "  mizzable." 

"  I  brought  her  "along,"  sighed  Mrs.  Mealer,  "  tain't  as 
if  neither  of  us  could  take  much  pleasure  into  it,  both 
of  us  being  so  deep  in  black  fer  her  Popper,  but  the 
styles  is  bound  to  do  her  good,  Emma  is  such  a  great 
hand  for  style." 

"  Yuess  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Tuttle  blandly.  This  lady  in 
blue  was  not  nearly  so  interested  in  Emma  as  in  keeping 
a  circle  of  admirers  hanging  around  her  cerulean  pres- 
ence, but  even  slightly  encouraged,  Mrs.  Mealer  warmed 
to  her  topic. 

"  Style  ?  "  she  repeated  impressively,  "  style  ?  Seems 
like  Emma  couldn't  never  have  enough  of  it.  Where  she 
got  it  I  don't  know.  I  wasn't  never  much  for  dress,  and 
give  her  Popper  coat  and  pants,  twuz  all  he  wanted. 
But  Emma  —  ef  you  want  to  make  her  happy  tie  a 
bow  onto  suthin'." 

Mrs.  Tuttle  nodded  with  ostentatious  understanding. 
Rising,  she  seized  Romeo's  cage  and  placed  it  more  con 
spicuously  near  her.  She  was  critically  watched  by  the 
older  women.  They  viewed  the  thing  with  mingled 
feelings,  one  or  two  going  so  far  as  to  murmur  darkly, 
"  Her  and  her  parrot !  " 

Still,  the  lady's  elegance  and  the  known  fact  that  she 
owned  and  operated  her  own  automobile  cast  a  spell  over 
most  of  her  obser\'ers,  and  many  faces,  as  Mrs.  Tuttle 
proceeded  to  draw  out  her  pet,  were  screwed  into  watch- 
ful and  ingratiating  benevolence. 

Romeo,  a  blase  bird  with  the  air  of  having  bitter 
memories,  affected  for  a  long  time  not  to  hear  his  mis- 
tress's   blandishments.     After    looking    contemptuously 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  5 

into  his  seed-cup,  he  crept  slowly  around  the  sides  of  his 
cage,  fixing  a  cynical  eye  upon  all  observers. 

"  How  goes  it,  Romeo  ?  "  appealed  Mrs.  Tuttle.  Mak- 
ing sounds  supposed  to  be  appreciated  by  birds,  the  lady 
put  her  feathered  head  down,  suggesting,  "  Ah  there, 
Romeo?" 

"  Rubberneck,"  returned  Romeo  sullenly.  To  show 
general^  scorn,  the  bird  revolved  on  one  claw  round  and 
round  his  swing ;  he  looked  dangerous,  repeating,  "  Rub- 
berneck." 

At  this  an  interested  group  gathered  around  Mrs. 
Tuttle,  who,  affable  and  indulgent,  attempted  by  coax- 
ings and  flirtings  of  a  fat  bediamonded  finger  to  show 
Romeo  off,  but  the  pampered  bird  saw  further  oppor- 
tunity to  offend. 

"  Rubberneck,"  screamed  Romeo  again.  He  ruffled 
up  his  neck  feathers,  repeating  "  Rubberneck,  I'm  cold  as 
the  deuce ;  what's  the  matter  with  Hannah ;  let  'em  all 
go  to  grass." 

Several  of  the  youths  with  ivory-headed  canes  now  for- 
sook their  contemplations  to  draw  near,  grinning,  to  the 
parrot-cage. 

Stimulated  by  these  youths,  Romeo  reeled  off  more 
ribald  remarks,  things  that  created  a  sudden  chill  among 
the  passengers  on  the  Fall  of  Rome.  Mrs.  Tinneray, 
looked  upon  as  a  leader,  called  up  a  shocked  face  and 
walked  away ;  Mrs.  Mealer  after  a  faint  "  Excuse  mc," 
also  abandoned  the  parrot-cage ;  and  Mrs.  Bean,  a  small 
stout  woman  with  a  brown  false  front,  followed  the 
large  lady  with  blue  spectacles  and  the  tan  linen  duster. 
On  some  mysterious  pretext  of  washing  their  hands, 
these  two  left  the  upper  deck  and  sought  the  calm  of  the 
white  and  gold  passenger  saloon.  Here  they  trod  as  in 
the  very  sanctities  of  luxury. 

"These  carpets  is  nice,  ain't  they?"  remarked  Mrs. 
Bean. 

Then  alluding  to  the  scene  they  had  just  left :  "  Ain't 
it  comical  how  she  idolizes  that  there  bird  ?  " 


6  THE  EXCURSION 

Mrs.  Tinneray  sniflFed.  "  And  what  she  spends  on 
him !  'Nitials  on  his  seed-cup  —  and  some  says  the  cage 
itself  is  true  gold." 

Mrs.  Bean,  preparing  to  wash  her  hands,  removed  her 
black  skirt  and  pinned  a  towel  around  her  waist.  "  This 
here  liquid  soap  is  nice  " —  turning  the  faucets  gingerly 
— "  and  don't  the  boat  set  good  onto  the  water?  "  Then 
returning  to  the  rich  topic  of  Mrs.  Tuttle  and  her  pam- 
pered bird,  "  Where's  she  get  all  her  money  for  her 
ottermobile  and  her  gold  cage  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tinneray  at  an  adjacent  basin  raised  her  head 
sharply,  "You  ain't  heard  about  the  Tuttle  money? 
You  don't  know  how  Mabel  Hutch  that  was,  was  hair 
to  everything  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bean  confessed  that  she  had  not  heard,  but  she 
made  it  evident  that  she  thirsted  for  information.  So 
the  two  ladies,  exchanging  remarks  about  sunburn  and 
freckles,  finished  their  hand-washing  and  proceeded  to 
the  dark-green  plush  seats  of  the  saloon,  where  with 
appropriate  looks  of  horror  and  incredulity  Mrs.  Bean 
listened  to  the  story  of  the  hairs  to  the  Hutches'  money. 

"  Mabel  was  the  favorite ;  her  Pa  set  great  store  by 
her.  There  was  another  sister  —  consumpted  —  she 
should  have  been  a  hair,  but  she  died.  Then  tlie  young- 
est one,  Hetty,  she  married  my  second  cousin  Hen  Cron- 
ney  —  well  it  seemed  like  they  hadn't  nothing  but  bad 
luck  and  her  Pa  and  Mabel  sort  of  took  against  Hetty." 

Mrs.  Bean,  herself  chewing  calculatingly,  handed  Mrs. 
Tinneray  a  bit  of  sugared  calamus-root. 

"  Is  your  cousin  Hen  dark-complexioned  like  your 
folks?''  she  asked  scientifically. 

Mrs.  Tinneray,  narrowing  both  eyes,  considered. 
"  More  auburn-inclined,  I  should  say  —  he  ain't  rill 
smart.  Hen  ain't,  he  gets  took  with  spells  now  and  then, 
but  I  never  held  that  against  him." 

"  Uh-huh !  "  agreed  Mrs.  Bean  sympathetically. 

"  Well,  then,  Mabel  Hutch  and  her  Popper  took 
against  poor  little  Hetty.     Old  man  Hutch  he  died  and 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  7 

left  everything  to  Mabel,  and  she  never  goes  near  her 
own  sister !  " 

Mrs.  Bean  raised  gray-cotton  gloved  hands  signifying 
horror. 

"  St  —  st  —  st !  "  she  deplored.     She  searched  in 

her  reticule  for  more  calamus-root.  "  He  didn't  leave 
her  nothing f" 

"  No,  ma'am !  This  one !  "  With  a  jerk  of  the  head, 
Mrs.  Tinneray  indicated  a  dashing  blue  feather  seen 
through  a  distant  saloon  window.  "  This  one's  got  it  all  ; 
hair  to  everything. 

"  And  what  did  she  do  —  married  a  traveling  sales- 
man and  built  a  tony  brick  house.  They  never  had  no 
children,  but  when  he  was  killed  into  a  railway  accident 
she  trimmed  up  that  parrot's  cage  with  crape  —  and 
now," —  Mrs.  Tinneray  with  increasing  solemnity 
chewed  her  calamus-root  — "  now  she's  been  and  bought 
one  of  them  ottermobiles  and  runs  it  herself  like  you'd 
run  your  sewin'-machine,  just  as  shameless — " 

Both  of  the  ladies  glared  condemnation  at  the  distant 
blue  feather. 

Mrs.  Tinneray  continued,  "  Hetty  Cronney's  worth  a 
dozen  of  her.  When  I  think  of  that  there  bird  goin'  on 
this  excursion  and  Hetty  Cronney  stayin'  home  because 
she's  too  poor,  I  get  nesty,  Mrs.  Bean,  yes,  I  do !  " 

"  Don't  your  cousin  Hetty  live  over  to  Chadwick's 
Harbor,"  inquired  Mrs.  Bean,  "  and  don't  this  boat-ride 
stop  there  to  take  on  more  folks  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tinneray,  acknowledging  that  these  things  were 
so,  uncorked  a  small  bottle  of  cologne  and  poured  a  little 
of  it  on  a  handkerchief  embroidered  in  black  forget-me- 
nots.  She  handed  the  bottle  to  Mrs.  Bean  who  took 
three  polite  sniffs  and  closed  her  eyes.  The  two  ladies 
sat  silent  for  a  moment.  They  experienced  a  detach- 
ment of  luxurious  abandon  filled  with  the  poetry  of  the 
steamboat  saloon.  Psychically  they  were  affected  as  by 
ecclesiasticism.  The  perfume  of  the  cologne  and  the 
throb  of  the  engines  swept  them  with  a  sense  of  esthetic 


8  THE  EXCURSION 

reverie,  the  thrill  of  travel,  and  the  atmosphere  of  ele- 
gance. Moreover,  the  story  of  the  Hutch  money  and 
the  Hutch  hairs  had  in  some  undefined  way  affiliated  the 
two.  At  last  by  tacit  consent  they  rose,  went  out  on 
deck  and,  holding  their  reticules  tight,  walked  majesti- 
cally up  and  down.  When  they  passed  Mrs.  Tuttle's 
blue  feathers  and  the  gold  parrot-cage  they  smiled  mean- 
ingly and  looked  at  each  other. 

As  the  Fall  of  Rome  approached  Chadwick's  Landing 
more  intimate  groups  formed.  Ihe  air  was  mild,  the 
sun  warm  and  inviting,  and  the  water  an  obvious  and 
understandable  blue.  Some  serious-minded  excursion- 
ists sat  well  forward  on  their  camp-stools  discussing  deep 
topics  over  half-skinned  bananas. 

*'  Give  me  the  Vote,''  a  lady  in  a  purple  raincoat  was 
saying,  "  Give  me  the  Vote  and  I  undertake  to  close  up 
every  rum-hole  in  God's  World." 

A  mild-mannered  youth  with  no  chin,  upon  hearing 
this,  edged  away.  He  went  to  the  stern,  looking  down 
for  a  long  time  upon  the  white  path  of  foam  left  in  the 
wake  of  the  Fall  of  Rome  and  taking  a  harmonica  from 
his  waistcoat  pocket  began  to  play,  "  Darling,  I  Am 
Growing  Old."  This  tune,  played  with  emotional  throb- 
bings  managed  by  spasmodic  movements  of  the  hands 
over  the  sides  of  the  mouth,  seemed  to  convey  anything 
but  age  to  Miss  Mealer,  the  girl  who  was  so  refined. 
She  also  sat  alone  in  the  stern,  also  staring  down  at  the 
white  water.  As  the  wailings  of  the  harmonica  ceased, 
she  put  up  a  thin  hand  and  furtively  controlled  some 
waving  strands  of  hair.  Suddenly  with  scarlet  face  the 
mild-mannered  youth  moved  up  his  camp-stool  to  her  side. 

"  They're  talkin'  about  closing  up  the  rum-holes."  He 
indicated  the  group  dominated  by  the  lady  in  the  purple 
raincoat.  "  They  don't  know  what  they're  talking  about. 
Some  rum-holes  is  real  refined  and  tasty,  some  of  them 
have  got  gramophones  you  can  hear  for  nothin'." 
'•'"'I-s  that   so?  "responded  the   refined   Miss   Mealer. 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  9 

She  smoothed  her  gloves.  She  opened  her  "  mesh  "  bag 
and  took  out  an  intensely  perfumed  handkerchief.  The 
mild-mannered  youth  put  his  harmonica  in  his  pocket 
and  warmed  to  the  topic. 

■'  Many's  the  time  I've  set  into  a  saloon  Hstening  to 
that  Lady  that  sings  high  up  —  higher  than  any  piano 
can  go.  I've  set  and  listened  till  I  didn't  know  where  I 
was  settin' —  of  course  I  had  to  buy  a  drink,  you  under- 
stand, or  I  couldn't  'a'  set." 

"  And  they  call  that  vice,"  remarked  Miss  Mealer  with 
languid  criticism. 

The  mild-mannered  youth  looked  at  her  gratefully. 
The  light  of  reason  and  philosophy  seemed  to  him  to 
shine  in  her  eyes. 

"  You've  got  a  piano  to  your  house,"  he  said  boldly, 
'*  can  you  —  ahem  —  play  classic  pieces,  can  you  play  — 
ahem  — *  Asleep  on  the  Deep  '  ?  " 

In  another  group  where  substantial  sandwiches  were 
being  eaten,  the  main  theme  was  religion  and  psychic 
phenomena  with  a  strong  leaning  toward  death-bed 
experiences. 

"  And  then,  my  sister's  mother-in-law,  she  set  up,  and 
she  says,  '  Where  am  I  ? '  she  says,  like  she  was  in  a 
store  or  somethin',  and  she  told  how  she  seen  all  white 
before  her  eyes  and  all  like  gentlemen  in  high  silk  hats 
walkin'  around." 

There  were  sighs  of  comprehension,  gasps  of  dolorous 
interest. 

"  The  same  with  my  Christopher !  " 

"  Just  like  my  aunt's  step-sister  afore  she  went ! " 

Mrs.  Tuttle  did  not  favor  the  grave  character  of  these 
symposia. 

With  the  assured  manner  peculiar  to  her,  she  swept 
into  such  circles  bearing  a  round  box  of  candy,  upon 
which  was  tied  a  large  bow  of  satin  ribbon  of  a  convivial 
shade  of  heliotrope.  Opening  this  box  she  handed  it 
about,  commanding,  "  Help  yourself." 

At  first  it  was  considered  refined  to  refuse.     One  or 


10  THE  EXCURSION 

two  excursionists,  awed  by  the  superfluity  of  heliotrope 
ribbon,  said  feebly,  "  Don't  rob  yourself." 

But  Mrs.  Tuttle  met  this  restraint  with  practised 
raillery.  "  What  you  all  afraid  of  ?  It  ain't  poisoned ! 
I  got  more  where  this  come  from."  She  turned  to  the 
younger  people.  "  Come  one,  come  all !  It's  French- 
mixed." 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Bean  and  Mrs.  Tinneray,  still  aloof 
and  enigmatic,  paced  the  deck.  Mrs.  Tuttle,  blue  feath- 
ers streaming,  teetered  on  her  high  heels  in  their  direc- 
tion. Again  she  proffered  the  box.  One  of  the  cynical 
youths  with  the  ivory-headed  canes  was  following  her, 
demanding  that  the  parrot  be  fed  a  caramel.  Once  more 
the  sky-blue  figure  bent  over  the  ornate  cage ;  then  little 
Mrs.  Bean  looked  at  Mrs.  Tinneray  with  a  gesture  of 
utter  repudiation. 

"Ain't  she  terrible T' 

As  the  steamboat  approached  the  wharf  and  the  dwarf 
pines  and  yellow  sand-banks  of  Chadwick's  Landing,  a 
whispered  consultation  between  these  two  ladies  resulted 
in  one  desperate  attempt  to  probe  the  heart  of  Mabel 
Hutch  that  was.  Drawing  camp-stools  up  near  the 
vicinity  of  the  parrot's  cage,  they  began  with  what  might 
to  a  suspicious  nature  have  seemed  rather  pointed  specu- 
lation, to  wonder  who  might  or  might  not  be  at  the 
wharf  when  the  Fall  of  Rome  got  in. 

Once  more  the  bottle  of  cologne  was  produced  and 
handkerchiefs  genteelly  dampened.  Mrs.  Bean,  taking 
off  her  green  glasses,  polished  them  and  held  them  up  to 
the  light,  explaining,  "  This  here  sea  air  makes  'em  all 
of  a  muck." 

Suddenly  she  leaned  over  to  Mrs.  Tuttle  with  an  air 
of  sympathetic  interest. 

"  I  suppose  —  er  —  your  sister  Hetty'll  be  comin'  on 
board  when  we  get  to  Chadwick's  Landing  —  her  and  her 
husband  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tuttle  fidgeted.  She  covered  Romeo's  cage  with 
a  curious  arrangement  like  an  altar-cloth  on  which  gay 


EDWIN  A  STANTON  BABCOCK      ii 

embroidered  parrakeets  of  all  colors  were  supposed  to 
give  Romeo,  when  lonely,  a  feeling  of  congenial  com- 
panionship. 

Mrs.  Bean,  thus  evaded,  screwed  up  her  eyes  tight, 
then  opened  them  wide  at  Mrs.  Tinneray,  who  sat  rigid, 
her  gaze  riveted  upon  far-off  horizons,  humming  between 
long  sighs  a  favorite  hymn.  Finally,  however,  the  last- 
named  lady  leaned  past  Mrs.  Bean  and  touched  Mrs. 
Tuttle's  silken  knee,  volunteering, 

"  Your  sister  Hetty  likes  the  water,  I  know.  You 
remember  them  days,  Mis'  Tuttle,  when  we  all  went 
bathin'  together  down  to  old  Chadwick's  Harbor,  afore 
they  built  the  new  wharf  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tinneray  continued  reminiscently. 

"  You  remember  them  old  dresses  we  wore  —  no 
classy  bathin'-suits  then  —  but  my  —  the  mornings  used 
to  smell  good!  That  path  to  the  shore  was  all  wild 
roses  and  we  used  to  find  blueberries  in  them  woods. 
Us  girls  was  always  teasin'  Hetty,  her  bathin'-dress  was 
white  muslin  and  when  it  was  wet  it  stuck  to  her  all  over, 
she  showed  through  —  my,  how  we'd  laugh,  but  yet  for 
all,"  concluded  Mrs.  Tinneray  sentimentally,  "  she  looked 
lovely  —  just  like  a  little  wet  angel." 

Mrs.  Tuttle  carefully  smoothed  her  blue  mitts,  observ- 
ing nervously,  "  Funny  how  Mis'  Tinneray  could  remem- 
ber so  far  back." 

"  Is  Hetty  your  sister  by  rights,"  suavely  inquired 
Mrs.  Bean,  "  or  ony  by  your  Pa's  second  marriage,  as 
it  were  ?  " 

The  owner  of  the  overestimated  parrot  roused  herself. 

"  By  rights,"  she  admitted  indifferently,  "  I  don't  see 
much  of  her  —  she  married  beneath  her." 

The  tip  of  Mrs.  Tinneray's  nose,  either  from  cologne 
inhalings  or  sunburn,  grew  suddenly  scarlet.  However 
she  still  regarded  the  far-ofif  horizons  and  repeated  the 
last  stanza  of  her  hymn,  which  stanza,  sung  with  much 
quavering  and  sighing  was  a  statement  to  the  effect  that 
Mrs.  Tinneray  would  "  cling  to  the  old  rugged  cross." 


12  THE  EXCURSION 

Suddenly,  however,  she  remarked  to  the  surrounding 
Summer  air, 

"  Hen  Cronney  is  my  second  cousin  on  the  mother's 
side.  Some  thought  he  was  pretty  smart  until  troubles 
come  and  his  wife  zvas  done  out  of  her  rights." 

The  shaft,  carefully  aimed,  went  straight  into  Mrs. 
Tuttle's  blue  bosom  and  stuck  there.  Her  eyes,  not 
overintelligent,  turned  once  in  her  complacent  face,  then, 
with  an  air  of  grandiose  detachment,  she  occupied  her- 
self with  the  ends  of  her  sky-blue  automobile  veil. 

"  I'll  have  to  fix  this  different,"  she  remarked  uncon- 
cernedly, "  or  else  my  waves'll  come  out.  Well,  I  pre- 
sume we'll  soon  be  there.  I  better  go  down-stairs  and 
primp  up  some."  The  high  heels  clattered  away.  Mrs. 
Bean  fixed  a  long  look  of  horror  on  Mrs,  Tinneray,  who 
silently  turned  her  eyes  up  to  heaven ! 

As  the  Fall  of  Rome  churned  its  way  up  to  the  sunny 
wharf  of  Chadwick's  Landing,  the  groups  already  on  the 
excursion  bristled  with  excitement.  Children  were  pre- 
pared to  meet  indulgent  grandparents,  lovers  their  sweet- 
hearts, and  married  couples  old  school  friends  they  had 
not  seen  for  years.  From  time  to  time  these  admon- 
ished their  offspring. 

"  Hypatia  Smith,  you're  draggin'  your  pink  sash,  leave 
Mommer  fix  it.  There  now,  don't  you  dare  to  set  down, 
so  Crammer  can  see  you  lookin'  good." 

"  Lionel  Jones,  you  throw  that  old  pop-corn  overboard. 
Do  you  want  to  eat  it  after  you've  had  it  on  the  floor?" 

"  Does  your  stomach  hurt  you,  dear  ?  Well,  here, 
don't  cry  Mommer'll  give  you  another  cruller." 

With  much  shouting  of  jocular  advice  from  the  male 
passengers  the  Fall  of  Rome  was  warped  into  Chad- 
wick's Landing  and  the  waiting  groups  came  aboard. 
As  they  streamed  on,  bearing  bundles  and  boxes  and  all 
the  impedimenta  of  excursions,  those  already  on  board 
congregated  on  the  after-deck  to  distinguish  familiar 
faces.  A  few  persons  had  come  down  to  the  landing 
merely  to  look  upon  the  embarkation. 


EDWIN  A  STANTON  BABCOCK  13 

These,  not  going  themselves  on  the  excursion,  main- 
tained an  air  of  benevolent  superiority  that  could  not 
conceal  vivid  curiosity.  Among  them,  eagerly  scanning 
the  faces  on  deck  was  a  very  small  thin  woman  clad  in  a 
gingham  dress,  on  her  head  a  battered  straw  hat  of  ac- 
centuated by-gone  mode,  and  an  empty  provision-basket 
swinging  on  her  arm.  Mrs.  Tinneray  peering  down  on 
her  through  smoked  glasses,  suddenly  started  violently. 
"  My  sakes,"  she  ejaculated,  "  my  sakes,"  then  as  the 
dramatic  significance  of  the  thing  gripped  her,  "  My  — 
my  —  my,  ain't  that  terrible  f" 

Solemnly,  with  prunella  portentousness,  Mrs.  Tinneray 
stole  back  of  the  other  passengers  leaning  over  the  rail 
up  to  Mrs.  Bean,  who  turned  to  her  animatedly,  exclaim- 
ing, 

"  They've  got  a  new  schoolhouse.  I  can  just  see  the 
cupolo  —  there's  some  changes  since  I  was  here.  They 
tell  me  there's  a  flag  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Methodist 
church  and  that  young  Baxter  the  express  agent  has 
growed  a  mustache,  and's  got  married." 

Mrs.  Tinneray  did  not  answer.  She  laid  a  compel- 
ling hand  on  Mrs.  Bean's  shoulder  and  turned  her  so 
that  she  looked  straight  at  the  small  group  of  home- 
stayers  down  on  the  wharf.  She  pointed  a  sepulchral 
finger, 

"  That  there,  in  the  broivn  zvith  the  basket,  is  Hetty 
Cronney,  own  sister  to  Mis'  Josiah  Tuttle." 

Mrs.  Bean  clutched  her  reticule  and  leaned  over  the 
rail,  gasping  with  interest. 

"  Ye  don't  say  —  that's  her  ?     My !  My !  My !  " 

In  solemn  silence  the  two  regarded  the  little  brown 
woman  so  unconscious  of  their  gaze.  By  the  piteous 
wizened  face  screwed  up  in  the  sunhght,  by  the  faded 
hair,  nut-cracker  jaws,  and  hollow  eyes  they  utterly 
condemned  Mrs.  Tuttle,  who,  blue  feathers  floating,  was 
also  absorbed  in  watching  the  stream  of  embarking  ex- 
cursionists. 

Mrs.   Tinneray,  after  a  whispered  consultation  with 


14  THE  EXCURSION 

Mrs.  Bean  went  up  and  nudged  her;  without  ceremony 
she  pointed, 

"  Your  sister's  down  there  on  the  wharf,"  she  an- 
nounced flatly,  "  come  on  over  where  we  are  and  you 
can  see  her." 

Frivolous  Mrs.  Tuttle  turned  and  encountered  a  pair 
of  eyes  steely  in  their  determination.  Re-adjusting  the 
gold  cage  more  comfortably  on  its  camp-stool  and  mur- 
muring a  blessing  on  the  hooked-beak  occupant,  the  azure 
lady  tripped  off  in  the  wake  of  her  flat-heeled  friend. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Tinneray,  standing  well  aft,  was  call- 
ing cheerfully  down  to  the  little  figure  on  the  wharf. 

"  Next  Summer  you  must  git  your  nerve  up  and  come 
along.  Excursions  is  all  the  rage  nowadays.  My  wife's 
took  in  four  a'ready." 

But  little  Mrs.  Cronney  did  not  answer.  Shading  her 
eyes  from  the  sun  glare,  she  was  establishing  recogni- 
zance with  her  cerulean  relative  who,  waving  a  careless 
blue-mitted  hand,  called  down  in  girlish  greeting, 

"  Heigho,  Hetty,  how's  Cronney  ?  Why  ain't  you  to 
the  excursion  ?  " 

The  little  woman  on  the  wharf  was  seen  to  wince 
slightly.  She  shifted  her  brown  basket  to  the  other  arm, 
ignoring  the  second  question. 

"'  Oh,  Cronney's  good  —  ony  he's  low-spirited  — 
seems  as  tho  he  couldn't  get  no  work." 

"  Same  old  crooked  stick,  hey  ?  "  Mrs.  Tuttle  called 
down  facetiously. 

Mrs.  Bean  and  Mrs.  Tinneray  stole  horrified  glances 
at  each  other.  One  planted  a  cotton-gloved  hand  over 
an  opening  mouth.  But  little  Mrs.  Cronney,  standing 
alone  on  the  pier  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  She  shook 
out  a  small  and  spotless  handkerchief,  blowing  her  nose 
with  elegant  deliberation  before  she  replied, 

"  Well  —  I  don't  know  as  he  needs  to  work  all  the 
time ;  Cronney  is  peculiar,  you  know,  he's  one  of  them 
that  is  high-toned  and  nifty  about  money  —  he  ain't  like 
some,  clutching  onto  every  penny ! " 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  15 

By  degrees,  other  excursionists,  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ing, began  to  catch  at  something  spicy  in  the  situation 
of  these  two  sisters  brought  face  to  face.  At  Mrs. 
Cronney's  sally,  one  of  the  funny  men  guffawed  his  ap- 
proval. Groups  of  excursionists  explained  to  each  other 
that  that  lady  down  there,  her  on  the  wharf,  in  the 
brown,  was  own  sister  to  Mrs.  Josiah  Tuttle! 

The  whistle  of  the  Fall  of  Rome  now  sounded  for  all 
aboard.  It  was  a  dramatic  moment,  the  possibilities  of 
which  suddenly  gripped  Mrs.  Tinneray.  She  clasped  her 
hands  in  effortless  agony.  This  lady,  as  she  afterward 
related  to  Mrs.  Bean,  felt  mean !  She  could  see  in  her 
mind's  eye,  she  said,  how  it  all  looked  to  Hetty  Cronney, 
the  Fall  of  Rome  with  its  opulent  leisurely  class  of  ex- 
cursionists steaming  away  from  her  lonely  little  figure  on 
the  wharf ;  while  Mabel  Tuttle,  selfish  devourer  of  the 
Hutches'  substance  and  hair  to  everything,  would  still 
be  handing  aroun'  her  boxes  of  French-mixed  and  talk- 
ing baby  talk  to  that  there  bird ! 

At  the  moment,  Mrs.  Tinneray 's  mind,  dwelling  upon 
the  golden  cage  and  its  over-estimated  occupant,  became 
a  mere  boiling  of  savage  desires.  Suddenly  the  line  of 
grim  resolution  hardened  on  her  face.  This  look,  one 
that  the  Tinneray  children  invariably  connected  with  the 
switch  hanging  behind  the  kitchen  door,  Mr.  Tinneray 
also  knew  well.     Seeing  it  now,  he  hastened  to  his  wife. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mother,  seasick?  Here  I'll  git 
you  a  lemon." 

Mrs.  Tinneray,  jaw  set,  eyes  rolling,  was  able  to  inti- 
mate that  she  needed  no  lemon,  but  she  drew  her  husband 
mysteriously  aside.  She  fixed  him  with  a  foreboding 
glare,  she  said  it  was  a  wonder  the  Lord  didn't  sink  the 
boat !  Then  she  rapidly  sketched  the  tragedy  —  Mrs. 
Tuttle  serene  and  pampered  on  the  deck,  and  Hetty 
Cronney  desolate  on  the  wharf !  She  pronounced  ver- 
dict. 

"  It's  terrible  —  that's  what  it  is  !  " 

Mr.  Tinneray  with  great  sagacity  said  he'd  like  to  show 


i6  THE  EXCURSION 

Mabel  Tuttle  her  place  —  then  he  nudged  his  wife  and 
chuckled  admiringly, 

"  But  yet  for  all,  Hetty's  got  her  tongue  in  her  head 
yet  —  say,  ain't  she  the  little  stinger  ?  " 

Sotto  I'oce  Mr.  Tinneray  related  to  his  spouse  how 
Mabel  Tuttle  was  bragging  about  her  brick  house  and 
her  shower-bath  and  her  automobile  and  her  hired  girl, 
and  how  she'd  druv  herself  and  that  there  bird  down  to 
Boston  and  back. 

"  Hetty,  she  just  stands  there,  just  as  easy,  and  hollers 
back  that  Cronney  has  bought  a  gramophone  and  how 
they  sets  by  it  day  and  night  listening,  and  how  it's  son 
and  daughter  to  'em.  Then  she  calls  up  to  Mabel  Tut- 
tle, '  I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  of  meddlin'  with  them 
ottermobiles,  yoitr  time  of  life.' " 

Mr.  Tinneray  choked  over  his  own  rendition  of  this 
audacity,  but  his  wife  sniffed  hopelessly. 

"  They  ain't  got  no  gramophone  —  her,  with  that  face 
and  hat  ?  —  Cronney  don't  make  nothing ;  they  two  could 
live  on  what  that  Blue  Silk  Quilt  feeds  that  stinkin'  par- 
rot." 

But  Mr.  Tinneray  chuckled  again,  he  seemed  to  be 
possessed  with  the  humor  of  some,  delightful  secret. 
Looking  carefully  around  him  and  seeing  every  one  ab- 
sorbed in  other  things  he  leaned  closer  to  his  wife. 

"  She's  liable  to  lose  that  bird,"  he  whispered.  "  Them 
young  fellers  with  the  canes  —  they're  full  of  their  devil- 
ment —  well,  they  wanted  I  shouldn't  say  nothing  and  I 
ain't  sayin'  nothing  —  only — " 

Fat  Mr.  Tinneray,  pale  eyes  rolling  in  merriment, 
pointed  to  the  camp-stool  where  once  the  parrot's  cage 
had  rested  and  where  now  no  parrot-cage  was  to  be  seen. 

"  As  fur  as  I  can  see,"  he  nudged  his  wife  again, 
"  that  bird's  liable  to  get  left  ashore." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Tinneray  received  this  news  stol- 
idly, then  a  look  of  comprehension  flashed  over  her  face. 
"  What  you  talkin'  about,  Henry  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Say, 
ain't  you  never  got  grown  up?     Where's  Manda  Bean?  " 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  17 

Having  located  Mrs.  Bean,  the  two  ladies  indulged 
in  a  rapid  whispered  conversation.  Upon  certain  reve- 
lations made  by  Mrs.  Bean,  Mrs.  Tinneray  turned  and 
laid  commands  upon  her  husband. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  that  what  you  told  me  is 
true  —  them  young  fellers — "  she  fixed  Mr.  Tinneray 
with  blue-glassed  significant  eyes,  adding  sotto  voce, 
"  You  keep  Mabel  Tuttle  busy." 

Fat  Mr.  Tinneray,  chuckling  anew,  withdrew  to  the 
after-rail  where  the  azure  lady  still  stood,  chained  as  it 
were  in  a  sort  of  stupor  induced  by  the  incisive  thrusts 
of  the  forlorn  little  woman  on  the  wharf.  He  joined  in 
the  conversation. 

"  So  yer  got  a  gramophone,  hey,"  he  called  down 
kindly  — "  Say,  that's  nice,  ain't  it  ?  —  that's  company  f er 
you  and  Cronney."  He  appealed  to  Mrs.  Tuttle  in  her 
supposed  part  of  interested  relative.  "  Keeps  'em  from 
gettin'  lonesome  and  all,"  he  explained. 

That  lady  looking  a  pointed  unbelief,  could  not,  with 
the  other  excursionists  watching,  but  follow  his  lead. 

"Why  —  er  —  ye-ess,  that's  rill  nice,"  she  agreed, 
with  all  the  patronage  of  the  wealthy  relative. 

Little  Mrs.  Cronney's  eyes  glittered.  The  steamboat 
hands  had  begun  lifting  the  hawsers  from  the  wharf  piles 
and  her  time  was  short.  She  was  not  going  to  be  pitied 
by  the  opulent  persons  on  the  excursion.  Getting  as  it 
were  into  her  stride,  she  took  a  bolder  line  of  imagery. 

"  And  the  telephone,"  looking  up  at  Mr.  Tinneray. 
"  I  got  friends  in  Quahawg  Junction  and  Russell  Center 
—  we're  talkin'  sometimes  till  nine  o'clock  at  night.  I 
can  pick  up  jelly  receipts  and  dress-patterns  just  so 
easy." 

But  Mrs.  Tuttle  now  looked  open  incredulity.  She 
turned  to  such  excursionists  as  stood  by  and  registered 
emphatic  denial.  "  Uh-huh  ?  "  she  called  down  in  ap- 
parent acceptance  of  these  lurid  statements,  at  the  same 
time  remarking  baldly  to  Mr.  Tinneray,  who  had  placed 
himself  at  her  side, 


i8  THE  EXCURSION 

"  She  ain't  got  no  telephone !  " 

At  this  moment  something  seemed  to  occur  to  little 
Mrs.  Cronney.  As  she  gave  a  parting  defiant  scrutiny  to 
her  opulent  sister  her  black  eyes  snapped  in  hollow  re- 
miniscence and  she  called  out, 

"Say  —  how's  your  parrot?  How's  your  beau  — 
Ro-me-o?" 

At  this,  understood  to  be  a  parting  shot,  the  crowd 
strung  along  the  rail  of  the  Fall  of  Rome  burst  into  an 
appreciative  titter.  Mrs.  Tuttle,  reddening,  made  no  an- 
swer, but  Mr.  Tinneray,  standing  by  and  knowing  what 
he  knew,  seized  this  opportunity  to  call  down  vocifer- 
ously, 

"  Oh  —  he's  good,  Romeo  is.  But  your  sister's  had 
him  to  the  excursion  and  he's  got  just  a  little  seasick 
comin'  over.  Mis'  Tuttle,  yer  sister,  is  going  to  leave 
him  with  you,  till  she  can  come  and  take  him  home,  by 
land,  ye  know,  in  her  ottermobile  —  she's  coming  to  git 
you  too,  fer  a  visit,  ye  know." 

There  was  an  eflfect  almost  as  of  panic  on  the  Fall  of 
Rome.  Not  only  did  the  big  whistle  for  "  all  aboard  " 
blow,  but  some  one's  new  hat  went  overboard  and  while 
every  one  crowded  to  one  side  to  see  it  rescued,  it  was 
not  discovered  that  Romeo's  cage  had  disappeared !  In 
the  confusion  of  a  band  of  desperadoes  composed  of  the 
entire  group  of  cynical  young  men  with  ivory-headed 
canes,  seized  upon  an  object  covered  with  something 
like  an  altar-cloth  and  ran  down  the  gangplank  with  it. 

Going  in  a  body  to  little  Mrs.  Cronney.  these  young 
men  deposited  a  glittering  burden,  the  gold  parrot-cage 
with  the  green  bird  sitting  within,  in  her  surprised  and 
gratified  embrace.  Like  flashes  these  agile  young  men 
jumped  back  upon  the  deck  of  the  Fall  of  Rome  just 
before  the  space  between  wharf  and  deck  became  too 
wide  to  jump.  Meanwhile  on  the  upper  deck,  before 
the  petrified  Mrs.  Tuttle  could  open  her  mouth,  Mr. 
Tinneray  shouted  instructions, 

"  Your  sister  wants  you  should  keep  him,"  he  roared. 


EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK  19 

"  till  she  comes  over  to  see  you  in  her  ottermobile  —  to 
—  fetch  —  him  —  and  —  git  —  you  —  for  —  a  —  visit !  " 

Suddenly  the  entire  crowd  of  excursionists  on  the 
after-deck  of  the  Fall  of  Rome  gave  a  rousing  cheer. 
The  gratified  young  men  with  the  ivory-headed  canes 
suddenly  saw  themselves  of  the  age  of  chivalry  and 
burst  into  ragtime  rapture;  the  excursion,  a  mass  of 
waving  flags  and  hats  and  automobile  veils,  made  en- 
thusiastic adieu  to  one  faded  little  figure  on  the  wharf, 
who  proud  and  happy  gently  waved  back  a  gleaming 
parrot's  cage! 

It  was  Mr.  Tinneray,  dexterous  in  all  such  matters, 
that  caught  at  a  drooping  cerulean  form  as  it  toppled 
over. 

"  I  know'd  she'd  faint,"  the  pale-eyed  gentleman 
chuckled.  He  manfully  held  his  burden  until  Mrs.  Tin- 
neray and  Mrs.  Bean  relieved  him.  These  ladies,  prac- 
tised in  all  smelling-bottle  and  cologne  soothings,  supplied 
also  verbal  comfort. 

"  Then  young  fellows,"  they  explained-to  Mrs.  Tuttle, 
"  is  full  of  their  devilment  and  you  can't  never  tell  what 
they'll  do  next.  But  ain't  it  lucky,  Mis'  Tuttle,  that  it's 
your  own  sister  has  charge  of  that  bird  ?  " 

When  at  last  a  pale  and  interesting  lady  in  blue  ap- 
peared feebly  on  deck,  wiping  away  recurrent  tears,  she 
was  received  with  the  most  perfect  sympathy  tempered 
with  congratulations.  There  may  have  been  a  few  winks 
and  one  or  two  nods  of  understanding  which  she  did  not 
see,  but  Mrs.  Tuttle  herself  was  petted  and  soothed  like 
a  queen  of  the  realm,  only,  to  her  mind  was  brought  a 
something  of  obligation  —  the  eternal  obligation  of  those 
who  greatly  possess  —  for  every  excursionist  said, 

"  My,  yes !  No  need  to  worry  —  your  sister  will  take 
care  of  that  bird  like  he  was  one  of  her  own,  and  then 
you  can  go  over  in  yer  ottermobile  to  git  him  —  and 
when  you  fetch  him  you  can  take  her  home  with  yer  — 
fer  a  visit." 


M 


ONNIE  ' 

By  THOMAS  BEER 

From    The   Century   Magaeine 

RS.  RAWLING  ordered  Sanford  to  take  a  bath, 
and  with  the  clear  vision  of  seven  years  Sanford 
noted  that  no  distinct  place  for  this  process  had  been 
recommended.  So  he  retired  to  a  sun-warmed  tub  of 
rain-water  behind  the  stables,  and  sat  comfortably  arm- 
pit deep  therein,  whirring  a  rattle  lately  worn  by  a 
snake,  and  presented  to  him  by  one  of  the  Varian  tribe, 
sons  of  his  father's  foreman.  Soaking  happily,  Sanford 
admired  his  mother's  garden,  spread  up  along  the  slope 
toward  the  thick  cedar  forest,  and  thought  of  the  moun- 
tain strawberries  ripening  in  this  hot  Pennsylvania  June. 
His  infant  brother  Peter  yelled  viciously  in  the  big  gray- 
stone  house,  and  the  great  sawmill  snarled  half  a  mile 
away,  while  he  waited  patiently  for  the  soapless  water 
to  remove  all  plantain  stains  from  his  brown  legs,  the 
cause  of  this  immersion. 

A  shadow  came  between  him  and  the  sun,  and  San- 
ford abandoned  the  rattles  to  behold  a  monstrous  female, 
unknown,  white-skinned,  moving  on  majestic  feet  to  his 
seclusion.  He  sat  deeper  in  the  tub,  but  she  seemed  un- 
abashed, and  stood  with  a  red  hand  on  each  hip,  a  grin 
rippling  the  length  of  her  mouth. 

"  Herself  says  you'll  be  comin'  to  herself  now,  if  it's 
you  that's  Master  San,"  she  said. 

1  Copyright,     1917,     by    The     Century     Company.     Copyright,     1918,     by 
Thomas  Beer.  ' 


THOMAS  BEER  21 

Sanford  speculated.  He  knew  that  all  things  have  an 
office  in  this  world,  and  tried  to  locate  this  preposterous, 
lofty  creature  while  she  beamed  upon  him. 

"  I'm  San.     Are  you  the  new  cook  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  the  same,"  she  admitted. 

"Are  you  a  good  cook?"  he  continued.  "Aggie 
wasn't.     She  drank." 

"  God  be  above  us  all !  And  whatever  did  herself  do 
with  a  cook  that  drank  in  this  place  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Aggie  got  married.  Cooks  do,"  said 
Sanford,  much  entertained  by  this  person.  Her  deep 
voice  was  soft,  emerging  from  the  largest,  reddest  mouth 
he  had  ever  seen.  The  size  of  her  feet  made  him  dubi- 
ous as  to  her  humanity.  "  Anyhow,"  he  went  on,  "  tell 
mother  I'm  not  clean  yet.     What's  your  name?  " 

"  Onnie,"  said  the  new  cook.  "  An'  would  this  be  the 
garden  ?  " 

"  Silly,  what  did  you  think?  " 

"  I'm  a  stranger  in  this  place,  Master  San,  an'  I  know 
not  which  is  why  nor  forever  after." 

Sanford's  brain  refused  this  statement  entirely,  and  he 
blinked. 

"  I  guess  you're  Irish,"  he  meditated. 

"  I  am.  Do  you  be  gettin'  out  of  your  tub  now,  an' 
Onnie'll  dry  you,"  she  offered. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  firmly ;  "  you're  a  lady." 

"  A  lady  ?  Blessed  Mary  save  us  from  sin !  A  lady  ? 
Myself?  I'm  no  such  thing  in  this  world  at  all;  I'm 
just  Onnie  Killelia." 

She  appeared  quite  horrified,  and  Sanford  was  aston- 
ished. She  seemed  to  be  a  woman,  for  all  her  height 
and  the  extent  of  her  hands. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked. 

"  As  I  am  a  Christian  woman,"  said  Onnie.  "  I  never 
was  a  lady,  nor  could  I  ever  be  such  a  thing." 

*'  Well,"  said  Sanford,  "  I  don't  know,  but  I  suppose 
you  can  dry  me." 

He  climbed  out  of  his  tub,  and  this  novel  being  paid 


22  ONNIE 

kind  attention  to  his  directions.  He  began  to  like  her, 
especially  as  her  hair  was  of  a  singular,  silky  blackness, 
suggesting  dark  mulberries,  delightful  to  the  touch. 
He  allowed  her  to  kiss  him  and  to  carry  him,  clothed, 
back  to  the  house  on  her  shoulders,  which  were  as  hard 
as  a  cedar  trunk,  but  covered  with  green  cloth  sprinkled 
with  purple  dots. 

"  And  herself's  in  the  libr'y  drinkin'  tea,"  said  his 
vehicle,  depositing  him  on  the  veranda.  "  An'  what 
might  that  be  you'd  be  holdin'  ?  " 

"  Just  a  rattle  off  a  snake." 

She  examined  the  six-tiered,  smoky  rattle  with  a 
positive  light  in  her  dull,  black  eyes  and  crossed  her- 
self. 

"  A  queer  country,  where  they  do  be  bellin'  the 
snakes !  I  heard  the  like  in  the  gover'ment  school 
before  I  did  come  over  the  west  water,  but  I  misbelieved 
the  same.  God's  ways  is  strange,  as  the  priests  will  be 
sayin'." 

"  You  can  have  it,"  said  Sanford,  and  ran  off  to 
inquire  of  his  mother  the  difference  between  women  and 
ladies. 

Rawling,  riding  slowly,  came  up  the  driveway  from 
the  single  lane  of  his  village,  and  found  the  gigantic  girl 
sitting  on  the  steps  so  absorbed  in  this  sinister  toy  that 
she  jumped  with  a  little  yelp  when  he  dismounted. 

"What' have  you  there?"  he  asked,  using  his  most 
engaging  smile. 

"  'Tis  a  snake's  bell,  your  Honor,  which  Master  San 
did  be  givin'  me.  'Tis  welcome  indeed,  as  I  lost  off  my 
holy  medal,  bein'  sick,  forever  on  the  steamship  crossin' 
the  west  water." 

"  But  —  can  you  use  a  rattle  for  a  holy  medal  ?  "  said 
Rawling. 

"  The  gifts  of  children  are  the  blessin's  of  Mary's 
self,"  Onnie  maintained.  She  squatted  on  the  gravel 
and  hunted  for  one  of  the  big  hair-pins  her  jump  had 
loosened,    then    used    it    to    pierce    the    topmost   shell. 


THOMAS  BEER  23 

Rawling  leaned  against  his  saddle,  watching  the  huge 
hands,  and  Pat  Sheehan,  the  old  coachman,  chuckled, 
coming  up  for  the  tired  horse. 

"  You'll  be  from  the  West,"  he  said,  "  where  they 
string  sea-shells.'' 

"  I  am,  an'  you'll  be  from  Dublin,  by  the  sound  of 
your  speakin'.  So  was  my  father,  who  is  now  drowned 
forever,  and  with  his  wooden  leg,"  she  added  mourn- 
fully, finding  a  cord  in  some  recess  of  her  pocket, 
entangled  there  with  a  rosary  and  a  cluster  of  small  fish- 
hooks. She  patted  the  odd  scapular  into  the  cleft  of  her 
bosom  and  smiled  at  Rawling.  "  Them  in  the  kitchen 
are  tellin'  me  you'll  be  ownin'  this  whole  country  an' 
sixty  miles  of  it,  all  the  trees  an'  hills.  You'll  be  no 
less  than  a  President's  son,  then,  your  Honor." 

Pat  led  the  horse  off  hastily,  and  Rawling  explained 
that  his  lineage  was  not  so  interesting.  The  girl  had 
arrived  the  night  before,  sent  on  by  an  Oil  City  agency, 
and  Mrs.  Rawling  had  accepted  the  Amazon  as  manna- 
fall.  The  lumber  valley  was  ten  miles  above  a  tiny  rail- 
road station,  and  servants  had  to  be  tempted  with  triple 
wages,  were  transient,  or  married  an  employee  before 
a  month  could  pass.  The  valley  women  regarded 
Rawling  as  their  patron,  heir  of  his  father,  and  as 
temporary  aid  gave  feudal  service  on  demand ;  but  for 
the  six  months  of  his  ftimily's  residence  each  year  house 
servants  must  be  kept  at  any  price.  He  talked  of  his 
domain,  and  the  Irish  girl  nodded,  the  rattles  whirring 
when  she  breathed,  muffled  in  her  breast,  as  if  a  snake 
were  crawling  somewhere  near. 

"  When  my  father  came  here,"  he  said,  "  there  wasn't 
any  railroad,  and  there  were  still  Indians  in  the  woods" 

"  Red  Indians  ?  Would  they  all  be  dead  now  ?  My 
brother  Hyacinth  is  fair  departed  his  mind  readin'  of 
red  Indians.     Him  is  my  twin." 

"  How  many  of  you  are  there  ?  " 

"  Twelve,  your  Honor,"  said  Onnie,  "  an'  me  the  first 
to  go  off,  bein'  that  I'm  not  so  pretty  a  man  would  be 


24  ONNIE 

marryin'  me  that  day  or  this.  An'  if  herself  is  content, 
I  am  pleased  entirely." 

"  You're  a  good  cook,"  said  Rawling,  honestly. 
"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

He  had  been  puzzling  about  this;  she  was  so  wonder- 
fully ugly  that  age  was  difficult  to  conjecture.  But  she 
startled  him. 

"  I'll  be  sixteen  next  Easter-time,  your  Honor." 

"  That's  very  young  to  leave  home,"  he  sympathized. 

"Who'd  be  doin'  the  like  of  me  any  hurt?  I'd 
trample  the  face  off  his  head,"  she  laughed. 

"  I  think  you  could.  And  now  what  do  you  think  of 
my  big  son  ?  " 

The  amazing  Onnie  gurgled  like  a  child,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"  Sure,  Mary  herself  bore  the  like  among  the  Jew 
men,  an'  no  one  since  that  day,  or  will  forever.  An'  I 
must  go  to  my  cookin',  or  Master  San  will  have  no 
dinner  fit  for  him." 

Rawling  looked  after  her  pink  flannel  petticoat, 
greatly  touched  and  pleased  by  this  eulogy.  Mrs. 
Rawling  strolled  out  of  the  hall  and  laughed  at  the  nar- 
rative. 

"  She's  appalling  to  look  at,  and  she  frightens  the 
other  girls,  but  she's  clean  and  teachable.  If  she  likes 
San,  she  may  not  marry  one  of  the  men  —  for  a  while." 

"  He'd  be  a  bold  man.  She's  as  big  as  Jim  Varian. 
If  we  run  short  of  hands,  I'll  send  her  up  to  a  cutting. 
Where's  San?" 

"  In  the  kitchen.  He  likes  her.  Heavens !  if  she'll 
only  stay.  Bob !  " 

Onnie  stayed,  and  Mrs.  Rawling  was  gratified  by 
humble  obedience  and  excellent  cookery.  Sanford  was 
gratified  by  her  address,  strange  to  him.  He  was  the 
property  of  his  father's  lumbermen,  and  their  wives 
called  him  everything  from  "  heart's  love "  to  "  Httle 
cabbage,"  as  their  origin  might  dictate;  but  no  one  had 
ever  called  him   "  Master  San."     He  was   San  to  the 


THOMAS  BEER  25 

whole  valley,  the  first-born  of  the  owner  who  gave  their 
children  schools  and  stereopticon  lectures  in  the  union 
chapel,  as  his  father  had  before  him.  He  went  where 
he  pleased,  safe  except  from  blind  nature  and  the 
unfriendly  edges  of  whirling  saws.  Men  fished  him  out 
of  the  dammed  river,  where  logs  floated,  waiting  conver- 
sion into  merchantable  planking,  and  the  Varian  boys, 
big,  tawny  youngsters,  were  his  body-guard.  These 
perplexed  Onnie  Killelia  in  her  first  days  at  Rawling's 
Hope. 

"  The  agent's  lads  are  whistlin'  for  Master  San,"  she 
reported  to  Mrs.  Rawling.     "Shall  I  be  findin'  him?" 

"  The  agent's  lads  ?     Do  you  mean  the  Varian  boys  ?  " 

"  Them's  them.  Wouldn't  Jim  Varian  be  his  honor's 
agent?  Don't  he  be  payin'  the  tenantry  an'  sayin'  where 
is  the  trees  to  be  felled?  I  forbid  them  to  come  in,  as 
Miss  Margot  —  which  is  a  queer  name !  —  is  asleep 
sound,  an'  Master  Pete." 

"  Jim  Varian  came  here  with  his  honor's  father,  and 
taught  his  honor  to  shoot  and  swim,  also  his  honor's 
brother  Peter,  in  New  York,  where  we  live  in  winter. 
Yes,  I  suppose  you'd  call  Jim  Varian  his  honor's  agent 
The  boys  take  care  of  Master  San  almost  as  well  as 
you  do." 

Onnie  sniffed,  balancing  from  heel  to  heel. 

"  Fine  care !  An'  Bill  Varian  lettin'  him  go  romping 
by  the  poison-ivy,  which  God  lets  grow  in  this  place  like 
weeds  in  a  widow's  garden.  An'  his  honor,  they  do  be 
sayin',  sends  Bill  to  a  fine  school,  and  will  the 
others  after  him,  and  to  a  college  like  Dublin  has 
after.  An'  they  callin'  himself  San  like  he  was  their 
brother !  " 

As  a  volunteer  nurse-maid  Onnie  was  quite  mirac- 
ulous to  her  mistress.  Apparently  she  could  follow 
Sanford  by  scent,  for  his  bare  soles  left  no  traces  in 
the  wild  grass,  and  he  moved  rapidly,  appearing  at  home 
exactly  when  his  stomach  suggested.  He  was  forbidden 
only  the  slate  ledges  beyond  the  log  basin,  where  rattle- 


26  ONNIE 

snakes  took  the  sun,  and  the  trackless  farther  reaches  of 
the  valley,  bewildering  to  a  small  boy,  with  intricate 
brooks  and  fallen  cedar  or  the  profitable  yellow  pine. 
Onnie,  crying  out  on  her  saints,  retrieved  him  from  the 
turn-table-pit  of  the  narrow-gauge  logging-road,  and 
pursued  his  fair  head  up  the  blue-stone  crags  behind  the 
house,  her  vast  feet  causing  avalanches  among  the  gar- 
den beds.  She  withdrew  him  with  railings  from  the 
enchanting  society  of  louse-infested  Polish  children,  and 
danced  hysterically  on  the  shore  of  the  valley-wide,  log- 
stippled  pool  when  the  Varians  took  him  to  swim.  She 
bore  him  off  to  bed,  lowering  at  the  actual  nurse.  She 
filled  his  bath,  she  cut  his  toe-nails.  She  sang  him  to 
sleep  with  "  Drolien  "  and  the  heart-shattering  lament  for 
Gerald.  She  prayed  all  night  outside  his  door  when  he 
had  a  brief  fever.  When  trouble  was  coming,  she  said 
the  "  snake's  bells  "  told  her,  talking  loudly ;  and  petty 
incidents  confirmed  her  so  far  .that,  after  she  found  the 
child's  room  ablaze  from  one  of  Rawling's  cigarettes, 
they  did  not  argue,  and  grew  to  share  half-way  her 
superstition. 

Women  were  scarce  in  the  valley,  and  the  well-fed, 
well-paid  men  needed  wives ;  and,  as  time  went  on, 
Honora  Killelia  was  sought  in  marriage  by  tall  Scots 
and  Swedes,  who  sat  dumbly  passionate  on  the  back 
veranda,  where  she  mended  San  ford's  clothes.  Even 
hawk-nosed  Jim  Varian,  nearing  sixty,  made  cautious 
proposals,  using  Bill  as  messenger,  when  Sanford  was 
nine. 

"  God  spare  us  from  purgatory !  "  she  shouted.  "  Me 
to  sew  for  the  eight  of  you?  Even  in  the  fine  house  his 
honor  did  be  givin'  the  agent  I  could  not  stand  the  noise 
of  it.  An'  who'd  be  mendin'  Master  San's  clothes? 
Be  out  of  this  kitchen.  Bill  Varian !  " 

Rawling,  suffocated  with  laughter,  reeled  out  of  the 
pantry  and  fled  to  his  pretty  wife. 

"  She  thinks  San's  her  own  kid  !  "  he  gasped. 

"  She's  perfectly  priceless.     I  wish  she'd  be  as  care- 


THOMAS  BEER  27 

ful  of  Margot  and  Pete.  I  wish  we  could  lure  her  to 
New  York.     She's  worth  twenty  city  servants." 

"  Her  theory  is  that  if  she  stays  here  there's  some  one 
to  see  that  Pat  Sheehan  doesn't  neglect  —  what  does  she 
call  San's  pony?"  Rawling  asked. 

"  The  little  horse.  Yes,  she  told  me  she'd  trample  the 
face  off  Pat  if  Shelty  came  to  harm.  She  keeps  the 
house  like  silver,  too;  and  it's  heavenly  to  find  the  cur- 
tains put  up  when  we  get  here.     Heavens !  listen !  " 

They  were  in  Rawling's  bedroom,  and  Onnie  came  up 
the  curved  stairs.  Even  in  list  house-slippers  she  moved 
like  an  elephant,  and  Sanford  had  called  her,  so  the 
speed  of  her  approach  shook  the  square  upper  hall,  and 
the  door  jarred  a  little  way  open  with  the  impact  of 
her  feet. 

"  Onnie,  Fm  not  sleepy.  Sing  Gerald,"  he  com- 
manded. 

"  I  will  do  that  same  if  you'll  be  lyin'  down  still. 
Master  San.  Now,  this  is  what  Conia  sang  when  she 
found  her  son  all  dead  forever  in  the  sands  of  the  west 
water." 

By  the  sound  Onnie  sat  near  the  bed  crooning  steadily, 
her  soft  contralto  filling  both  stories  of  the  happy  house. 
Rawling  went  across  the  hall  to  see,  and  stood  in  the 
boy's  door.  He  loved  Sanford  as  imaginative  men  can 
who  are  still  young,  and  the  ugly  girl's  idolatry  seemed 
natural.  Yet  this  was  very  charming,  .the  simple 
room,  the  drowsy;  slender  child,  curled  in  his  sheets,  sur- 
rounded with  song. 

"  Thank  you,  Onnie,"  said  Sanford.  "  I  suppose  she 
loved  him  a  lot.     It's  a  nice  song.     Goo'  night." 

As  Onnie  passed  her  master,  he  saw  the  stupid  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

"  Now,  why'U  he  be  thankin'  me,"  she  muttered  — 
"  me  that  *u'd  die  an'  stay  in  hell  forever  for  him  ? 
Now  I  must  go  mend  up  the  fish-bag  your  Honor's 
brother's  wife  was  for  sendin'  him  an'  which  no  decent 
fish  would  be  dyin'  in." 


28  ONNIE 

"Aren't  you  going  to  take  Jim  Varian?"  asked 
Rawling. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  marryin'  with  Roosyvelt  himself, 
that's  President,  an'  has  his  house  built  all  of  gold! 
Who'd  be  seein'  he  gets  his  meals,  an'  no  servants  in 
the  sufferin'  land  worth  the  curse  of  a  heretic?  Not  the 
agent,  nor  fifty  of  him,"  Onnie  proclaimed,  and  marched 
away. 

Sanford  never  came  to  scorn  his  slave  or  treat  her  as 
a  servant.  He  was  proud  of  Onnie.  She  did  not  em- 
barrass him  by  her  all-embracing  attentions,  although  he 
weaned  her  of  some  of  them  as  he  grew  into  a  wood- 
ranging,  silent  boy,  studious,  and  somewhat  shy  outside 
the  feudal  valley.  The  Varian  boys  were  sent,  as  each 
reached  thirteen,  to  Lawrenceville,  and  testified  their 
gratitude  to  the  patron  by  diligent  careers.  They  were 
San  ford's  summer  companions,  with  occasional  visits 
from  his  cousin  Denis,  whose  mother  disapproved  of  the 
valley  and  Onnie. 

"  I  really  don't  see  how  Sanford  can  let  the  poor 
creature  fondle  him,"  she  said.  "  Denny  tells  me  she 
simply  wails  outside  San's  door  if  he  comes  home  wet 
or  has  a  bruise.  It's  rather  ludicrous,  now  that  San's 
fourteen.     She  writes  to  him  at  Saint  Andrew's." 

"  I  told  her  Saint  Andrew's  wasn't  far  from  Boston, 
and  she  offered  to  get  her  cousin  Dermot  —  he's  a  bell- 
hop at  the  Touraine  —  to  valet  him.  Imagine  San  with 
a  valet  at  Saint  Andrew's !  "  Rawling  laughed. 

"  But  San  isn't  spoiled,"  Peter  observed,  "  and  he's 
the  idol  of  the  valley.  Bob,  even  more  than  you  are. 
Varian,  JNIcComas,  Jansen  —  the  whole  gang  and  their 
cubs.     They'd  slaughter  any  one  who  touched  San." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  stand  the  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Peter.  "  Even  if  the  men  are  respectful,  they're  so 
familiar.  And  anything  could  happen  there,  Denny 
tells  me  you  have  Poles  and  Russians  —  all  sorts  of 
dreadful  people." 


THOMAS  BEER  29 

Her  horror  tinkled  prettily  in  the  Chinese  drawing- 
room,  but  Rawling  siglicd. 

"  We  can't  get  the  old  sort  —  Scotch,  Swedes,  the 
good  Irish.  We  get  any  old  thing.  Varian  swears  like 
a  trooper,  but  he  has  to  fire  them  right^and  left  all  sum- 
mer through.  We've  a  couple  of  hundred  who  are 
there  to  stay,  some  of  them  born  there;  but  God  help 
San  when  he  takes  it  over !  " 

San  ford  learned  to  row  at  Saint  Andrew's,  and  came 
home  in  June  with  new,  flat  bands  of  muscle  in  his  chest, 
and  Onnie  worshiped  with  loud  Celtic  exclamations, 
and  bade  small  Pete  grow  up  like  Master  San.  And 
Sanford  grew  two  inches  before  he  came  home  for  the 
next  summer,  reverting  to  bare  feet,  corduroys,  and 
woolen  shirts  as  usual.  Onnie  eyed  him  dazedly  when 
he  strode  into  her  kitchen  for  sandwiches  against  an 
afternoon's  fishing. 

"  O  Master  San,  you're  all  grown  up  sudden' !  " 

"  Just  five  foot  eight,  Onnie.  Ling  Variants  five  foot 
nine ;  so's  Cousin  Den." 

"  But  don't  you  be  goin'  round  the  cuttin'  camps  up 
valley,  neither.  You're  too  young  to  be  hearin'  the 
awful  way  these  news  hands  do  talk.  It's  a  sin  to  hear 
how  they  curse  an'  swear." 

"  The  wumman's  right,"  said  Cameron,  the  smith, 
who  was  courting  her  while  he  mended  the  kitchen 
range.  "They're  foul  as  an  Edinburgh  fishwife  —  the 
new  men.  Go  no  place  wi'out  a  Varian,  two  Varians,  or 
one  of  my  lads." 

"  Good  Lord  !     I'm  not  a  kid,  Ian  I  " 

"  Ye're  no'  a  mon,  neither.  An'  ye're  the  owner's 
first,"  said  Cameron  grimly. 

Rawling  nodded  when  Sanford  told  him  this. 

"  Jim  carries  an  automatic  in  his  belt,  and  we've  had 
stabbings.  Keep  your  temper  if  they  get  fresh.  We're 
in  hot  water  constantly,  San.  Look  about  the  trails  for 
whisky-caches.  These  rotten  stevedores  who  come 
floating  in  bother  the  girls  and  bully  the  kids.     You're 


30  ONNIE 

fifteen,  and  I  count  on  you  to  help  keep  the  property 
decent.  The  boys  will  tell  you  the  things  they  hear. 
Use  the  Varians;  Ling  and  Reuben  are  clever.  I  pay 
high  enough  wages  for  this  riffraff.  I'll  pay  anything 
for  good  hands ;  and  we  get  dirt ! '' 

San  ford  enjoyed  being  a  detective,  and  kept  the 
Varians  busy.  Bill,  acting  as  assistant  doctor  of  the 
five  hundred,  gave  him  advice  on  the  subject  of 
cocaine  symptoms  and  alcoholic  eyes.  Onnie  raved 
when  he  trotted  in  one  night  with  Ling  and  Reuben  at 
heel,  their  clothes  rank  with  the  evil  whiskey  they  had 
poured  from  kegs  hidden  in  a  cavern  near  the  valley- 
mouth. 

"  You'll  be  killed  forever  with  some  Polack  beast !  O 
Master  San,  it's  not  you  that's  the  polis.  'Tis  not  fit 
for  him,  your  Honor.  Some  Irish  pig  will  be  shootin' 
him,  or  a  sufferin'  Bohemyun." 

"  But  it's  the  property,  Onnie,"  the  boy  faltered. 
'*  Here's  his  honor  worked  to  death,  and  Uncle  Jim. 
I've  got  to  do  something.  They  sell  good  whisky  at  the 
store,  and  just  smell  me." 

But  Onnie  wept,  and  Rawling,  for  sheer  pity,  sent  her 
out  of  the  dining-room. 

"  She  —  she  scares  me  !  "  Sanf  ord  said.  "  It's  not 
natural.  Dad,  d'  you  think?" 

He  was  sitting  on  his  bed,  newly  bathed  and  pensive, 
reviewing  the  day. 

"  Why  not  ?  She's  alone  here,  and  you're  the  only 
thing  she's  fond  of.  Stop  telling  her  about  things  or 
she'll  get  sick  with  worry." 

"  She's  fond  of  Margot  and  Pete,  but  she's  just  idiotic 
about  me.     She  did  scare  me !  " 

Rawling  looked  at  his  son  and  wondered  if  the  boy 
knew  how  attractive  were  his  dark,  blue  eyes  and  his 
plain,  grave  face.  The  younger  children  were  lieautiful; 
but  San  ford,  reared  more  in  the  forest,  had  the  forest 
depth  in  his  gaze  and  an  animal  litheness  in  his  hard 
young  body. 


THOMAS  BEER  .  31 

"  She's  like  a  dog."  Sanford  reflected.  "  Only  she's 
a  woman.     It's  sort  of  --" 

"  Pathetic  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  word.  But  I  do  love  the  poor 
old  thing.  Her  letters  are  rich.  She  tells  nie  about  all 
the  new  babies  and  who's  courting  who  and  how  the 
horses  are.     It  is  pathetic." 

He  thought  of  Onnie  often  the  next  winter,  and 
especially  when  she  wrote  a  lyric  of  thanksgiving  after 
the  family  had  come  to  Rawling's  Hope  in  April,  saying 
that  all  would  be  well  and  trouble  would  cease.  But  his 
father  wrote  differently : 

"  You  know  there  is  a  strike  in  the  West  Virginia 
mines,  and  it  has  sent  a  mass  of  ruffians  out  looking  for 
work.  We  need  all  the  people  we  can  get,  but  they  are 
a  pestiferous  outfit,  I  am  opening  up  a  camp  in  Bear 
Run,  and  our  orders  are  enormous  already,  but  I  hate 
littering  the  valley  with  these  swine.  They  ire  as  inso- 
lent and  dirty  as  Turks.  ■  Pete  says  the  village  smells, 
and  has  taken  to  the  woods.  Onnie  says  the  new  Irish 
are  black  scum  of  Limerick,  and  Jim  Varian's  language 
isn't  printable.  The  old  men  are  complaining,  and 
altogether  I  feel  like  Louis  XVI  in  1789.  About  every 
day  I  have  to  send  for  the  sheriff  and  have  some  tliug 
arrested.  A  blackguard  from  Oil  City  has  opened  a  dive 
just  outside  the  property,  on  the  road  to  the  station,  and 
Cameron  tells  me  all  sorts  of  dope  is  for  sale  in  the 
boarding-hou.ses.  We  have  cocaine-inhalers,  opium- 
smokers,  and  all  the  other  vices." 

After  this  outburst  Sanford  was  not  surprised  when 
he  heard  from  Onnie  that  his  father  now  wore  a  revol- 
ver, and  that  the  overseers  of  the  sawmill  did  the  same. 

On  the  first  of  June  Rawling  posted  signs  at  the  edge 
of  his  valley  and  at  the  railroad  stations  nearest,  saying 
that  he  needed  no  more  labor.  The  tide  of  applicants 
ceased,  but  Mrs.  Rawling  was  nervous.  Pete  declared 
his  intention  of  running  away,  and  riding  home  in  the 


32  ONNIE 

late  afternoon,  Margot  was  stopped  by  a  drunken, 
babbling  man,  who  seized  her  pony's  bridle,  with  un- 
known words.  She  galloped  free,  but  next  day  Rawling 
sent  his  wife  and  children  to  the  seaside  and  sat  waiting 
San  ford's  coming  to  cheer  his  desolate  house,  the  new 
revolver  cold  on  his  groin. 

Sanford  came  home  a  day  earlier  than  he  had  planned, 
and  drove  in  a  borrowed  cart  from  the  station,  furious 
when  an  old  cottage  blazed  in  the  rainy  night,  just  below 
the  white  posts  marking  his  heritage,  and  shrill  women 
screamed  invitation  at  the  horse's  hoof-l:)eat3.  He  felt 
the  valley  smirched,  and  his  father's  worn  face  angered 
him  when  they  met. 

"  I  almost  wish  you'd  not  come.  Sonny.  We're  in 
rotten  shape  for  a  hard  summer.  Go  to  bed,  dear,  and 
get  warm." 

"Got  a  six-shooter  for  me?" 

"  You  ?  Who'd  touch  you  ?  Some  one  would  kill 
him.  I  let  Rill  have  a  gun,  and  some  other  steady  heads. 
You  must  keep  your  temper.  You  always  have.  Ling 
Varian  got  into  a  splendid  row  with  some  hog  who 
called  Uncle  Jim  —  the  usual  name.  Ling  did  him  up. 
Ah,  here's  Onnie.     Onnie,  here's  — " 

The  cook  rushed  down  the  stairs,  a  fearful  and  notable 
bed-gown  covering  her  night-dress,  and  the  rattles  chat- 
tering loudly. 

"  God's  kind  to  us.  See  the  chest  of  him !  Master 
San  !     Master  San  !  " 

"  Good  Lord,  Onnie.  I  wasn't  dead,  you  know ! 
Don't  kill  a  fellow !  " 

For  the  first  time  her  embrace  was  an  embarrassment; 
her  mouth  on  his  cheek  made  him  flush.  She  loved  him 
so  desperately,  this  poor  stupid  woman,  and  he  could 
only  be  fond  of  her,  give  her  a  sort  of  tolerant  affection. 
Honesty  reddened  his  face. 

"  Come  on  and  find  me  a  hard-boiled  egg,  there's 
a—" 

"A  hard-boiled  egg?    Listen  to  that,  your  Honor! 


THOMAS  BEER  33 

An'  it's  near  the  middle  of  the  night!  No,  I'll  not  be 
findin*  hard-boiled  eggs  for  you  —  oh,  he's  laughin'  at 
me !  Now  you  come  into  the  dinin'-room,  an'  I'll  be 
hottin'  some  milk  for  you,  for  you're  wet  as  any 
drowned  little  cat.  An'  the  mare's  fine,  an'  I've  the 
fishin'-sticks  all  dusted,  an'  your  new  bathin'-tub's  to 
your  bath-room,  though  ill  fate  follow  that  English  pig 
Percival  that  put  it  in,  for  he  dug  holes  with  his  heels ! 
An'  would  you  be  wantin'  a  roast-beef  sandwidge  ?  " 

"  She's  nearly  wild,"  said  Rawling  as  the  pantry  door 
slammed.  **  You  must  be  careful,  San,  and  not  get  into 
any  rows.     She'd  have  a  fit.     What  is  it?" 

"  What  do  you  do  when  you  can't  —  care  about  a  per- 
son as  much  as  they  care  about  you  ?  " 

"  Put  up  with  it  patiently."  Rawling  shrugged. 
"  What  else  can  you  do?  "  • 

"  I'm  sixteen.  She  keeps  on  as  if  I  were  six.  S-suppose 
she  fell  in  love  with  me?     She's  not  old  —  very  old." 

"  It's  another  sort  of  thing,  Sonny.  Don't  worry,'' 
said  Rawling,  gravely,  and  broke  off  the  subject  lest  the 
boy  should  fret. 

Late  next  afternoon  Sanford  rode  down  a  trail  from 
deep  forest,  lounging  in  the  saddle,  and  flicking  brush 
aside  with  a  long  dog-whip.  There  was  a  rain-storm 
gathering,  and  the  hot  air  swayed  no  leaf.  A  rabbit, 
sluggish  and  impertinent,  hopped  across  his  path  and 
wanilered  up  the  side  trail  toward  Varian's  cottage. 
Sanford  halted  the  mare  and  whistled.  His  father 
needed  cheering,  and  Ling  Varian,  if  obtainable,  would 
make  a  third  at  dinner.  His  intimate  hurtled  down  the 
tunnel  of  mountain  ash  directly  and  assented. 

"  Wait  till  I  go  back  and  tell  Reuben,  though,  I'm 
cooking  this  week.  Wish  Onnie  'd  marry  dad.  Make 
her,  can't  you?  Hi,  Reu !  I'm  eating  at  the  house. 
The  beef's  on,  and  dad  wants  fried  onions.  Why  won't 
she  have  dad?     You're  grown  up." 

He  trotted  beside  the  mare  noiselessly,  chewing  a  birch 
spray,  a  hand  on  his  friend's  knee. 


34  ONNIE 

"  She  says  she  won't  get  married.  I  expect  she'll 
stay  here  as  long  as  she  lives." 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  I  wish  she'd  marry  dad,"  said 
Ling.  "  All  this  trouble's  wearing  him  out,  and  he 
won't  have  a  hired  girl  if  we  could  catch  one.  There's 
a  pile  of  trouble,  San.  He  has  rows  every  day.  Had 
a  hell  of  a  row  with  Percival  yesterday." 

"  Who's  this  Percival  ?  Onnie  was  cursing  him  out 
last  night,"  San  ford  recollected. 

"  He's  an  awful  big  hog  who's  pulling  logs  at  the 
runway.  Used  to  be  a  plumber  in  Australia.  Swears 
like  a  sailor.  He's  a  —  what  d'  you  call  'em?  You 
know,  a  London  mucker?" 

"Cockney?" 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  He  put  in  your  new  bath-tub,  and 
Onnie  jumped  him  for  going  round  the  house  looking 
at  things.  Dad's  getting  ready  to  fire  him.  He's  the 
worst  hand  in  the  place.     I'll  point  him  out  to  you." 

The  sawmill  whistle  blew  as  the  trail  joined  open  road, 
and  they  passed  men,  their  shirts  sweat-stained,  nodding 
or  waving  to  the  boys  as  they  spread  off  to  their  houses 
and  the  swimming-place  at  the  river  bridge. 

•A  group  gathered  daily  behind  the  engine-yard  to  play 
horseshoe  quoits,  and  Sanford  pulled  the  mare  to  a  walk 
on  the  fringes  of  tliis  half-circle  as  old  friends  hailed  him 
and  shy  lads  with  hair  already  sun-bleached  wriggled  out 
of  the  crowd  to  shake  hands,  Camerons,  Jansens,  Nat- 
tiers,  Keenans,  sons  of  the  faithful.  Bill  Varian  strolled 
up,  his  medical  case  under  an  arm. 

"  I'm  eating  with  you.  The  boss  asked  me.  He 
feels  better  already.  Come  in  and  speak  to  dad.  He's 
hurt  because  he's  not  seen  you,  and  you  stopped  to  see 
Ian  at  the  forge.  Hi,  Dad !  "  he  called  over  the  felt  hats 
of  the  ring.  "  here's  San." 

"  Fetch  him  in,  then,"  cried  the  foreman. 

Bill  and  Ling  led  the  nervous  mare  through  the  group 
of  pipe-smoking,  friendly  lumbermen,  and  Varian 
hugged  his  fosterling's  son.  .    • 


THOMAS  BEER  35 

"  Stop  an'  watch,"  he  whispered,  *'  They'll  like  seein' 
you,  San.  Onnie's  been  tellin'  the  women  you've 
growed  a  yard." 

Sanford  settled  to  the  monotony  of  the  endless  sport, 
saluting  known  brown  faces  and  answering  yelps  of 
pleasure  from  the  small  boys  who  squatted  against  the 
high  fence  behind  the  stake. 

"  That's  Percival,"  said  Ling,  as  a  man  swaggered  out 
to  the  pitching-mark. 

"  Six  foot  three,"  Bill  said,  "  and  strong  as  an  ox. 
Drinks  all  the  time.     Think  he  dopes,  too." 

Sanford  looked  at  the  fellow  with  a  swift  dislike  for 
his  vacant,  heavy  face  and  his  greasy,  safifron  hair.  His 
bare  arms  were  tattooed  boldly  and  in  many  colors,  dis- 
torted with  ropes  of  muscle.  He  seemed  a  little  drunk, 
and  the  green  clouds  cast  a  copper  shade  into  his  lashless 
eyes. 

"  Can't  pitch  for  beans,''  said  Ling  as  the  first  shoe 
went  wide.  When  the  second  fell  beside  it,  the  crowd 
laughed. 

"  Now,"  said  Ian  Cameron,  "  he'll  be  mad  wi'  vain- 
glory.    He's  a  camstearlie  ring'  it  an'  a  claverin'  fu'." 

"  Ho !  larf  ahead !  "  snapped  the  giant.  "  'Ow's  a 
man  to  'eave  a  bloody  thing  at  a  bloody  stike  ?  " 

The  experts  chuckled,  and  he  ruffled  about  the  ring, 
truculent,  sneering,  pausing  before  Varian,  with  a  glance 
at  Sanford. 

"  Give  me  something  with  some  balance.  Hi  can 
show  yer.     Look  !  " 

"I'm  looking,"  said  the  foreman;  "an'  I  ain't  deaf, 
neither." 

"  'Ere's  wot  you  blighters  carn't  'eave.  Learned  it 
in  Auckland,  where  there's  real  men."  He  fumbled  in 
his  shirt,  and  the  mare  snorted  as  the  eight-inch  blade 
flashed  out  of  its  handle  under  her  nose.  "See? 
That's  the  lidy!  Now  watch!  There's  a  knot-'ole  up 
the  palings  there." 

The  crowd  fixed  a  stare  on  the  green,  solid  barrier, 


36  ONNIE 

and  the  knife  soared  a  full  twenty  yards,  but  missed  the 
knot-hole  and  rattled  down.  There  was  flat  derision  in 
the  following  laughter,  and  Percival  dug  his  heel  in  the 
sod. 

"  Larf  ahead!     Hany  one  else  try  'er?" 

"  Oh,  shut  up ! "  said  some  one  across  the  ring. 
"  We're  pitchin'  shoes." 

Percival  slouched  off  after  his  knife,  and  the  frieze 
of  small  boys  scattered  except  a  lint-haired  Cameron 
who  was  nursing  a  stray  cat  busily,  cross-legged  against 
the  green  boarding. 

"  Yon's  Robert  Sanford  Cameron,"  said  the  smith. 
"  He  can  say  half  his  catechism." 

"  Good  kid,"  said  Sanford.    "  I  never  could  get  any  — " 

Percival  had  wandered  back  and  stood  a  yard  off, 
glaring  at  Bill  as  the  largest  object  near. 

"Think  I  can't,  wot?" 

"  I'm  not  interested,  and  you're  spoiling  the  game," 
said  Bill,  who  feared  nothing  alive  except  germs,  and 
could  afford  to  disregard  most  of  these.  San  ford's 
fingers  tightened  on  his  whip. 

"  Ho !  "  coughed  the  cockney.     "  See !     You  —  there !  " 

Robert  Cameron  looked  up  at  the  shout.  The  blade 
shot  between  the  child's  head  and  the  kitten  and  hummed 
gently,  quivering  in  the  wood. 

"  Hi  could  'a'  cut  'is  throat,"  said  Percival  so  com- 
placently that  Sanford  boiled. 

"You  scared  him  stiff,''  he  choked.  "You  hog! 
Don't—" 

"  'Ello,  'oo's  the  young  dook?  " 

"  Look  out,"  said  a  voice.     "  That's  San,  the  — " 

"  Ho !  'Im  with  the  Hirish  gal  to  'elp  'im  tike  'is 
bloody  barth  nights?     'Oo's  he?     She's  a — " 

A  second  later  Sanford  knew  that  he  had  struck  the 
man  over  the  face  with  his  whip,  cutting  the  phrase. 
The  mare  plunged  and  the  whole  crowd  congested  about 
the  bellowing  cockney  as  Bill  held  Cameron  back,  and 
huge  Jansen  planted  a  hand  on  Rawling's  chest. 


THOMAS  BEER  37 

"  No  worry,"  he  said  genially.  "  Yim  an'  us,  Boss, 
our  job," 

Varian  had  wedged  his  hawk  face  close  to  the 
cockney's,  now  purple  blotdied  with  wrath,  and  Rawling 
waited. 

"  Come  to  the  office  an'  get  your  pay.  You  hear  ? 
Then  you  clear  out.  If  you  ain't  off  the  property  in  an 
hour  you'll  be  dead.     You  hear  ?  " 

"  He  ought  to,"  muttered  Ling,  leading  the  mare 
away.  "  Dad  hasn't  yelled  that  loud  since  that  Dutch- 
man dropped  the  kid  in  the  —  hello,  it's  raining !  " 

"  Come  on  home,  Sonny,"  said  Rawling,  "  and  tell  us 
all  about  it.     I  didn't  see  the  start." 

But  San  ford  was  still  boiling,  and  the  owner  had 
recourse  to  his  godson.  Ling  told  the  story,  unabridged, 
as  they  mounted  toward  the  house. 

"  Onnie'll  hear  of  it,"  sighed  Rawling.  "  Look, 
there  she  is  by  the  kitchen,  and  that's  Jennie  Cameron 
loping  'cross  lots.  Never  mind,  San.  You  did  the  best 
you  could ;  don't  bother.     Swine  are  swine." 

The  rain  was  cooling  San  ford's  head,  and  he  laughed 
awkwardly.  ,  ^ 

"  Sorry  I  lost  my  temper." 

"I'm  not-    Jennie's  telling  Onnie.     Hear?" 

The  smith's  long-legged  daughter  was  gesticulating 
at  the  kitchen  trellis,  and  Onnie's  feet  began  a  sort  of 
war-dance  in  the  wet  grass  as  Rawling  approached. 

"  Where  is  this  sufferin'  pig,  could  your  honor  be 
tellin'  me?  God  be  above  us  all!  With  my  name  in  his 
black,  ugly  mouth !  I  knew  there'd  be  trouble ;  the 
snake's  bells  did  be  sayin'  so  since  the  storm  was  comin'. 
An'  him  three  times  the  bigness  of  Master  San !  Where'd 
he  be  now  ?  " 

"  Jim  gave  him  an  hour  to  be  oflf  the  property,  Onnie." 

"  God's  mercy  he  had  no  knife  in  his  hand,  then,  even 
with  the  men  by  an'  Master  San  on  his  horse.  Blessed 
Mary !  I  will  go  wait  an'  have  speech  with  this  English- 
man on  the  road." 


38  ONNIE 

"  You'll  go  get  dinner,  Onnie  Killelia,"  said  Rawling. 
"Master  San  is  tired,  Bill  and  Ling  are  coming — and 
look  there !  " 

The  faithful  were  marching  Percival  down  the  road 
to  the  valley-mouth  in  the  green  dusk.  He  walked 
between  Jansen  and  Bill,  a  dozen  men  behind,  and  a 
flying  scud  of  boys  before. 

"  An'  Robbie's  not  hurt,"  said  Miss  Cameron,  "  an' 
San  ain't,  neither;  so  don't  you  worry,  Onnie.  It's  all 
right." 

Onnie  laughed. 

"  I'd  like  well  to  have  seen  the  whip  fly,  your  Honor. 
The  arm  of  him !  Will  he  be  wantin'  waffles  to  his 
dinner  ?  Heyah !  more  trouble  yet !  "  The  rattles  had 
whirred,  and  she  shook  her  head.  "  A  forest  fire  likely 
now  ?     Or  a  child  bein'  born  dead  ?  " 

"  Father  says  she's  fey,"  Jennie  observed  as  the  big 
woman  lumbered  oflf. 

"  You  mean  she  has  second  sight  ?  Perhaps.  Here's 
a  dollar  fqr  Robbie,  and  tell  Ian  he's  lucky." 

^  Bill  raced  up  as  the  rain  began  to  fall  heavily  in  the 
windless  gray  of  six  o'clock.  He  reported  the  cockney 
gone  and  the  men  loud  in  admiration  of  Sanford;  so 
dinner  was  cheerful  enough,  although  Sanford  felt  limp 
after  his  first  attack  of  killing  rage.  Onnie's  name  on 
this  animal's  tongue  had  maddened  him,  the  reaction 
made  him  drowsy ;  but  Ling's  winter  at  Lawrenceville 
and  Bill's  in  New  York  needed  hearing.  Rawling  left 
the  three  at  the  hall  fireplace  while  he  read  a  new  novel 
in  the  library.  The  rain  increased,  and  the  fall  became 
a  continuous  throbbing  so  steady  that  he  hardly  heard 
the  telephone  ring  close  to  his  chair;  but  old  Varian's 
voice  came  clear  along  the  wire. 

"  Is  that  you.  Bob?  Now,  listen.  One  of  them  girls 
at  that  place  down  the  station  road  was  just  talkin'  to 
me.  She's  scared.  She  rung  me  up  an'  Cameron. 
That  dam'  Englishman's  gone  out  o'  there  bile  drunk. 


THOMAS  BEER  39 

swearin'  he'll  cut  San's  heart  out,  the  pup!  He's 
gone  off  wavin'  his  knife.  Now,  he  knows  the  house, 
an'  he  ain't  afraid  of  nothin' —  when  he's  drunk.  He 
might  get  that  far  an'  try  breakin'  in.  You  lock 
up-" 

''Lock  up?  What  with?"  asked  Rawling.  "There's 
not  a  lock  in  the  place.  Father  never  had  them  put  in, 
and  I  haven't." 

"  Well,  don't  worry  none.  lan's  got  out  a  dozen  men 
or  so  with  lights  an'  guns,  an'  Bill's  got  his.  You  keep 
Bill  an'  Ling  to  sleep  down-stairs.  lan's  got  the  men 
round  the  house  by  this.  The  hog'll  make  noise  enough 
to  wake  the  dead." 

"  Nice,  isn't  it.  Uncle  Jim,  having  this  whelp  out 
gunning  for  San!  I'll  keep  the  boys.  Good-night,"  he 
said  hastily  as  a  shadow  on  the  rug  engulfed  his  feet. 
The  rattles  spoke  behind  him. 

"  There's  a  big  trouble  sittin'  on  my  soul,"  said  Onnie. 
"  Your  Honor  knows  there's  nothing  makes  mortal  flesh 
so  wild  mad  as  a  whipping,  an'  this  dog  does  know  the 
way  of  the  house.  Do  you  keep  the  agent's  lads  to-night 
in  this  place  with  guns  to  hand.  The  snake's  bells  keep 
ringin'." 

"  My  God !  Onnie,  you're  making  me  believe  in  your 
rattles!  Listen.  Percival's  gone  out  of  that  den  down 
the  road,  swearin'  he'll  kill  San.  He's  drunk,  and  Cam- 
eron's got  men  out." 

"  That  'u'd  be  the  why  of  the  lanterns  I  was  seein' 
down  by  the  forge.  But  it's  black  as  the  bowels  of 
purgatory,  your  Honor,  an'  him  a  strong,  wicked  devil, 
cniel  an'  angry.  God  destroy  him!  If  he'd  tread  on 
a  poison  snake !  No  night  could  be  so  black  as  his 
heart." 

"  Steady,  Onnie !  " 

"  I'm  speakin'  soft,  Himself's  not  able  to  hear," 
she  said,  her  eyes  half  shut.  She  rocked  slowly  on  the 
amazing  feet.  "  Give  me  a  pistol,  your  Honor.  I'll 
be  for  sleepin'  outside  his  door  this  night." 


40  ONNIE 

"  You'll  go  to  bed  and  keep  your  door  open.  If  you 
hear  a  sound,  yell  like  perdition.  Send  Bill  in  here. 
Say  I  want  him.  That's  all.  There's  no  danger, 
Onnie ;  but  I'm  taking  no  chances." 

"  We'll  take  no  chances,  your  Honor." 

She  turned  away  quietly,  and  Rawling  shivered  at  this 
cool  fury.  The  rattles  made  his  spine  itch,  and  suddenly 
his  valley  seemed  like  a  place  of  demons.  The  lanterns 
circling  on  the  lawn  seemed  like  frail  glow-worms,  in- 
credibly useless,  and  he  leaned  on  the  window-pane  lis- 
tening with  fever  to  the  rain. 

"  All  right,"  said  Bill  when  he  had  heard.  "  'Phone 
the  sheriff.  The  man's  dangerous,  sir.  I  doctored  a 
cut  he  had  the  other  day,  and  he  tells  me  he  can  see  at 
night.  That's  a  lie,  of  course,  but  he's  light  on  his  feet, 
and  he's  a  devil.  I've  seen  some  rotten  curs  in  the  hos- 
pitals, but  he's  worse." 

"  Really,  Billy,  you  sound  as  fierce  as  Onnie.  She 
wanted  a  gun." 

The  handsome  young  man  bit  a  lip,  and  his  great  body 
shook. 

"  This  is  San,"  he  said,  "  and  the  men  would  kill  any 
one  who  touched  you,  and  they'd  burn  any  one  who 
touched  San.     Sorry  if  I'm  rude." 

"  We  mustn't  lose  our  heads."  Rawling  talked 
against  his  fear.  "  The  man's  drunk.  He'll  never  get 
near  here,  and  he's  got  four  miles  to  come  in  a  cold  rain. 
But—" 

"  May  I  sleep  in  San's  room  ?  " 

"  Then  he'll  know.  I  don't  want  him  to,  or  Ling, 
either;  they're  imaginative  kids.  This  is  a  vile  mess, 
Billy." 

"  Hush !  Then  I'll  sleep  outside  his  door.  I  will, 
sir!" 

"All  right,  old  man.  Thanks.  Ling  can  sleep  in 
Pete's  room.     Now  I'll  'phone  Mackintosh." 

But  the  sheriff  did  not  answer,  and  his  deputy  was  ill. 
Rawling   shrugged,,  but   \yhen    Varian   telephoned   that 


THOMAS  BEER  41 

there  were  thirty  men  searching,  he  felt  more  com- 
fortable. 

"  You're  using  the  wires  a  lot,  Dad,"  said  Sanford, 
roaming  in.  "Anything  wrong?  Where's  Ling  to 
sleep  ? " 

"  In  Pete's  room.  Good-night,  Godson.  No,  noth- 
ing wrong." 

But  Sanford  was  back  presently,  his  eyes  wide. 

"  I  say,  Onnie's  asleep  front  of  my  door  and  I  can't 
get  over  her.     What's  got  into  the  girl  ?  " 

"  She's  worried.  Her  snake's  bells  are  going,  and 
she  thinks  the  house'll  burn  down.  Let  her  be.  Sleep 
with  me,  and  keep  my  feet  warm.  Sonny." 

"Sure,"  yawned  Sanford.     '"Night,  Billy." 

"  Well,"  said  Bill,  "  that  settles  that,  sir.  She'd  hear 
anything,  or  I  will,  and  you're  a  light  sleeper.  Suppose 
we  lock  up  as  much  as  we  can  and  play  some  checkers  ?  " 

They  locked  the  doors,  and  toward  midnight  Cameron 
rapped  at  the  library  window,  his  rubber  coat  glistening. 

"  Not  a  print  of  the  wastrel  loon,  sir ;  but  the  lads  will 
bide  out  the  night.  They've  whusky  an'  biscuits  an' 
keep  moving." 

"  I'll  come  out  myself,"  Rawling  began,  but  the  smith 
grunted. 

*'  Ye're  no  stirrin'  oot  yer  hoos,  Robert  Rawling ! 
Ye're  daft!  Gin  you  met  this  ganglin'  assassinator, 
wha'd  be  for  maister?  San's  no  to  lack  a  father.  Gae  to 
yer  bit  bed  !  " 

"  Gosh !  "  said  Bill,  shutting  the  window,  "  he's  in 
earnest.  He  forgot  to  try  to  talk  English  even.  I  feel 
better.  The  hog's  fallen  into  a  hole  and  gone  to  sleep. 
Let's  go  up." 

"  I  suppose  if  I  tell  Onnie  San's  with  me,  she'll  just 
change  to  my  door,"  Rawling  considered;  "but  I'll  try. 
Poor  girl,  she's  faithful  as  a  dog!  " 

They  mounted  softly  and  beheld  her,  huddled  in  a 
blanket,  mountainous,  curled  outside  Sanford's  closed 
door,   just   opposite   the   head    of   the   stairs.     Rawling 


42  ONNIE 

stooped  over  the  heap  and  spoke  to  the  tangle  of  blue- 
shadowed  hair. 

"  Onnie  Killelia,  go  to  bed." 

"  Leave  me  be,  your  Honor.     I'm  — " 

Sleep  cut  the  protest.  The  rattles  sounded  feebly, 
and  Ravvling  stood  up. 

"  Just  like  a  dog,"  whispered  Bill,  stealing  off  to  a 
guest-room.  "  I'll  leave  my  door  open."  He  patted  the 
revolver  in  his  jacket  and  grinned  affectionately. 
*'  Good-night,  Boss." 

Rawling  touched  the  switch  inside  his  own  door,  and 
the  big  globe  set  in  the  hall  ceiling  blinked  out.  They 
had  decided  that,  supposing  the  cockney  got  so  far,  a 
lightless  house  would  perplex  his  feet,  and  he  would  be 
the  noisier.  Rawling  could  reach  this  button  from  his 
bed,  and  silently  undressed  in  the  blackness,  laying  the 
automatic  on  the  bedside  table,  reassured  by  all  these 
circling  folk,  Onnie,  stalwart  Bill,  and  the  loyal  men 
out  in  the  rain.  Here  slept  San  ford,  breathing  happily, 
so  lost  that  he  only  sighed  when  his  father  crept  in  beside 
him,  and  did  not  rouse  when  Rawling  thrust  an  arm 
under  his  warm  weight  to  bring  him  closer,  safe  in  the 
perilous  night. 

The  guest-room  bed  creaked  beneath  Bill's  two  hun- 
dred pounds  of  muscle,  and  Ling  snored  in  Peter's  room. 
Rawling's  nerves  eased  on  the  mattress,  and  hypnotic 
rain  began  to  deaden  him,  against  his  will.  He  saw  Per- 
cival  sodden  in  some  ditch,  his  knife  forgotten  in 
brandy's  slumbers.  No  shout  came  from  the  hillside. 
His  mind  edged  toward  vacancy,  bore  back  when  the 
boy  murmured  once,  then  he  gained  a  mid-state  where 
sensation  was  not,  a  mist. 

He  sat  up,  tearing  the  blankets  back,  because  some 
one  moved  in  the  house,  and  the  rain  could  be  heard 
more  loudly,  as  if  a  new  window  were  open.  He  swung 
his  legs  free.     Some  one  breathed  heavily  in  the  hall. 


THOMAS  BEER  43 

Rawling  clutched  his  revolver,  and  the  cold  of  it  stung. 
This  might  be  Onnie,  any  one;  but  he  put  his  finger  on 
the  switch. 

"  Straight  hover  —  hover  the  way  it  was,"  said  a 
thick,  puzzled  voice.  "  There,  that  one !  Ts  bloody 
barth!" 

The  rattles  whirred  as  if  their  first  owner  lived. 
Rawling  pressed  the  switch. 

"  Your  Honor !  "  Onnie  screamed.  "  Your  Honor  ! 
Master  San !  Be  lockin'  the  door  inside,  Master  San ! 
Out  of  this,  you !     You  !  " 

Rawling's  foot  caught  in  the  doorway  of  the  bright 
hall,  and  he  stumbled,  the  light  dazzling  on  the  cockney's 
wet  bulk  hurling  itself  toward  the  great  woman  where 
she  stood,  her  arms  flung  cruciform,  guarding  the  empty 
room.  The  bodies  met  with  a  fearful  jar  as  Rawling 
staggered  up,  and  there  came  a  crisp  explosion  before  he 
could  raise  his  hand.  Bill's  naked  shoulder  cannoned 
into  him,  charging,  and  Bill's  revolver  clinked  against 
his  own.  Rawling  reeled  to  the  stair-head,  aiming  as 
Bill  caught  at  the  man's  shirt ;  but  the  cockney  fell  back- 
ward, crumpling  down,  his  face  purple,  his  teeth  dis- 
played. 

"  In  the  head !  "  said  Bill,  and  bent  to  look,  pushing 
the  plastered  curls  from  a  temple.  The  beast  whim- 
pered and  died ;  the  knife  rattled  on  the  planks. 

"  Dad,"  cried  Sanford,  "  what  on  — " 

"  Stay  where  you  are !  "  Rawling  gasped,  sick  of  this 
ugliness,  dizzy  with  the  stench  of  powder  and  brandy. 
Death  had  never  seemed  so  vile.  He  looked  away  to  the 
guardian  where  she  knelt  at  her  post,  her  hands  clasped 
on  the  breast  of  her  coarse  white  robe  as  if  she  prayed, 
the  hair  hiding  her  face. 

"  I'll  get  a  blanket,"  Bill  said,  rising.  "  There  come 
the  men!     That  you,  Ian?" 

The  smith  and  a  crowd  of  pale  faces  crashed  up  the 
stairs. 


44  ONNIE 

"  God  f  orgie  us !  We  let  him  by  —  the  garden,  sir. 
Alec  thought  he  — " 

"  Gosh,  Onnie !  "  said  Bill,  "  excuse  me!  I'll  get  some 
clothes  on.     Here,  Ian  — " 

"Onnie,"  said  Sanford,  in  the  doorway — "Onnie, 
what's  the  matter?" 

As  if  to  show  him  this,  her  hands,  unclasping,  fell  from 
the  dead  bosom,  and  a  streak  of  heart's  blood  widened 
from  the  knife-wound  like  the  ribbon  of  some  very  noble 
order. 


A  CUP  OF  TEA^ 

By  maxwell  STRUTHERS  BURT  , 

From  Scribner's  Magazine. 

YOUNG  Burnaby  was  late.  He  was  always  late. 
One  associated  him  with  lateness  and  certain  eager, 
impossible  excuses  —  he  was  always  coming  from  some- 
where to  somewheres,  and  his  "  train  was  delayed,"  or 
his  huge  space-devouring  motor  "  had  broken  down." 
You  imagined  him,  enveloped  in  dust  and  dusk,  his  face 
disguised  beyond  human  semblance,  tearing  up  and  down 
the  highways  of  the  world ;  or  else  in  the  corridor  of  a 
train,  biting  his  nails  with  poorly  concealed  impatience. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  you  saw  him,  he  was  beyond 
average  correctly  attired,  and  his  manner  was  suppressed, 
as  if  to  conceal  the  keenness  that  glowed  behind  his  dark 
eyes  and  kept  the  color  mounting  and  receding  in  his 
sunburnt  cheeks.  All  of  which,  except  the  keenness,  was 
a  strange  thing  in  a  man  who  spent  half  his  life  shoot- 
ing big  game  and  exploring.  But  then,  one  imagined  that 
Burnaby  on  the  trail  and  Burnaby  in  a  town  were  two 
entirely  different  persons.  He  liked  his  life  with  a  thrust 
to  it,  and  in  a  great  city  there  are  so  many  thrusts  that,  it 
is  to  be  supposed,  one  of  Burnaby's  temperament  hardly 
has  hours  enough  in  a  day  to  appreciate  all  of  them  and 
at  the  same  time  keep  appointments. 

On  this  February  night,  at  all  events,  he  was  extremely 
late,  even  beyond  his  custom,  and  Mrs.  Malcolm,  having 
waited  as  long  as  siie  possibly  could,  sighed  amusedly 
and  told  her  man  to  announce  dinner.  There  were  only 
three  others  besides  herself  in  the  drawing-room.  Masters 

1  Copyright,   1917,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Copyright,   1918,  by  Max- 
well Struthers  Burt. 

45 


46  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

—  Sir  John  Masters,  the  EngHsh  financier  —  and  his 
wife,  and  Mrs.  Selden,  dark,  a  Httle  silent,  with  a  flushed, 
finely  cut  face  and  a  slightly  sorrow-stricken  mouth. 
And  already  these  people  had  reached  the  point  where 
talk  is  interesting.  People  did  in  Mrs.  Malcolm's  house. 
One  went  there  with  anticipation,  and  came  away  with 
the  delightful,  a  little  vague,  exhilaration  that  follows  an 
evening  vhere  the  perfection  of  the  material  background 

—  lights,  food,  wine,  flowers  —  has  been  almost  forgotten 
in  the  thrill  of  contact  with  real  persons,  a  rare  enough 
circumstance  in  a  period  when  the  dullest  people  enter- 
tain the  most.  In  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Malcolm  even 
the  very  great  forgot  the  suspicions  that  grow  with  suc- 
cess and  became  themselves,  and,  having  come  once,  came 
again  vividly,  overlooking  other  people  who  really  had 
more  right  to  their  attentions  than  had  she. 

This  was  the  case  with  Sir  John  Masters.  And  he  was 
a  very  great  man  indeed,  not  only  as  the  world  goes  but 
in  himself :  a  short,  heavy  man,  with  a  long,  heavy  head 
crowned  with  vibrant,  still  entirely  dark  hair  and  pointed 
by  a  black,  carefully  kept  beard,  above  which  arose  — 
"  arose  "  is  the  word,  for  Sir  John's  face  was  architec- 
tural —  a  splendid,  slightly  curved  nose  —  a  buccaneer- 
ing nose ;  a  nose  that,  willy-nilly,  would  have  made  its 
possessor  famous.  One  suspected,  far  back  in  the  yeo- 
man strain,  a  hurried,  possibly  furtive  marriage  with 
gypsy  or  Jew ;  a  sudden  blossoming  into  lyricism  on  the 
part  of  a  soil-stained  Masters.  Certainly  from  some- 
where Sir  John  had  inherited  an  imagination  which  was 
not  insular.  Dangerous  men,  these  Sir  Johns,  with  their 
hooked  noses  and  their  lyric  eyes ! 

Mrs.  Malcolm  described  him  as  fascinating.  There 
was  about  him  that  sense  of  secret  power  that  only  politi- 
cians, usually  meretriciously,  and  diplomats,  and,  above 
all,  great  bankers  as  a  rule  possess ;  yet  he  seldom  talked 
of  his  own  life,  or  the  mission  that  had  brought  him  to 
New  York ;  instead,  in  his  sonorous,  slightly  Hebraic 
voice,  he  drew  other  people  on  to  talk  about  themselves, 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  47 

or  else,  to  artists  and  writers  and  their  sort,  discovered  an 
amazing,  discouraging  knowledge  of  the  trades  by  which 
they  earned  their  living.  "  One  feels,"  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
colm, "  that  one  is  eyeing  a  sensitive  python.  He  uncoils 
beautifully." 

They  were  seated  at  the  round,  candle-Ht  table,  the 
rest  of  the  room  in-  partial  shadow.  Sir  John  looking  like 
a  lost  Rembrandt,  and  his  blonde  wife,  with  her  soft 
English  face,  like  a  rose-and-gray  portrait  by  Reynolds, 
when  Burnaby  strode  in  upon  them  .  .  .  strode  in  upon 
them,  and  then,  as  if  remembering  the  repression  he  be- 
lieved in,  hesitated,  and  finally  advanced  quietly  toward 
Mrs.  Malcolm.  One  could  smell  the  snowy  February 
night  still  about  him. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  he  said.     "  I  — " 

"  You  broke  down,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm, 
"  or  the  noon  train  from  Washington  was  late  for  the 
first  time  in  six  years.  What  do  you  do  in  Washington, 
anyway?     Moon  about  the  Smithsonian?" 

"  No,"  said  Burnaby,  as  he  sank"  into  a  chair  and  un- 
folded his  napkin.  "  Y'see  —  well,  that  is  —  I  ran  across 
a  fellow  —  an  Englishman  —  who  knew  a  chap  I  met 
last  summer  up  on  the  Francis  River  —  I  didn't  exactly 
meet  him,  that  is,  I  ran  into  him,  and  it  wasn't  the  Francis 
River  really,  it  was  the  Upper  Liara,  a  branch  that  comes 
in  from  the  northwest.  Strange,  wasn't  it?  —  this  fel- 
low, this  Englishman,  got  to  talking  about  tea,  and  that 
reminded  me  of  the  whole  thing."  He  paused  on  the 
last  word  and,  with  a  peculiar  habit  that  is  much  his  own, 
stared  across  the  table  at  Lady  Masters,  but  over  and 
through  her,  as  if  that  pretty  pink-and-white  woman  had 
entirely  disappeared, —  and  the  warm  shadows  behind  her, 
—  and  in  her  place  were  no  one  could  guess  what  vistas 
of  tumbling  rivers  and  barren  tundras. 

"Tea!  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

Burnaby  came  back  to  the  flower-scented  circle  -of 
light. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  soberly,  "  tea.     Exactly." 


48  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

Mrs.  Malcolm's  delicate  eyebrows  rose  to  a  point. 
"  What,"  she  asked,  in  the  tones  of  delighted  motherhood 
overlaid  with  a  slight  exasperation  which  she  habitually 
used  toward  Burnaby,  "  has  tea  got  to  do  with  a  man 
you  met  on  the  Upper  Liara  last  summer  and  a  man  you 
met  this  afternoon?     Why  tea?" 

"  A  lot,"  said  Burnaby  cryptically,  and  proceeded  to 
apply  himself  to  his  salad,  for  he  had  refused  the  courses 
his  lateness  had  made  him  miss.  "  Y'see,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  "  it  was  this  way  —  and  it's  worth 
telling,  for  it's  queer,  I  ran  into  this  Terhime  this  after- 
noon at  a  club  —  a  big,  blond  Englishman  who's  been  in 
the  army,  but  now  he's  out  making  money.  Owns  a  tea 
house  in  London.  Terhune  &  Terhune  —  perhaps  you 
know  them?  "     He  turned  to  Sir  John. 

"  Yes,  very  well.     I  imagine  this  is  Arthur  Terhune." 

"  That's  the  man.  Well,  his  being  in  tea  and  that 
sort  of  thing  got  me  to  telling  him  about  an  adventure 
I  had  last  summer,  and,  the  first  crack  out  of  the  box, 
he  said  he  remembered  the  other  chap  perfectly  —  had 
known  him  fairly  well  at  one  time.  Odd,  wasn't  it,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it?  A  big,  blond,  freshly  bathed 
Englishman  in  a  club,  and  that  other  man  away  up 
there !  " 

"  And  the  other  man?  Is  he  in  the  tea  business  too?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Selden.  She  was  interested  by  now,  lean- 
ing across  the  table,  her  dark  eyes  catching  light  from 
the  candles.  It  was  something  —  to  interest  Mrs. 
Selden. 

"  No,"  said  Burnaby  abruptly.  "  No.  He's  in  no 
business  at  all,  except  going  to  perdition.  Y'see,  he's  a 
squaw-man  —  a  big,  black  squaw-man,  with  a  nose  like  a 
Norman  king's.  The  sort  of  person  you  imagine  in  even- 
ing clothes  in  the  Carleton  lounge.  He  might  have  been 
anything  but  what  he  is." 

•"  I  wonder."  said  Sir  John,  "why  we  do  that  sort  of 
thing  so  much  more  than  other  nations?  Our  very  best, 
too.     It's  odd." 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  49 

"  It  was  odd  enough  the  way  it  happened  to  me,  any- 
how," said  Burnaby.  "  I'd  been  knocking  around  up 
there  all  summer,  just  an  Indian  and  myself  —  around 
what  they  call  Fort  Francis  and  the  Pelly  Lakes,  and 
toward  the  end  of  August  we  came  down  the  Liara  in  a 
canoe.  We  were  headed  for  Lower  Post  on  the  Fran- 
cis, and  it  was  all  very  lovely  until,  one  day,  we  ran 
into  a  rapid,  a  devil  of  a  thing,  and  my  Indian  got 
drowned." 

"  How  dreadful !  "  murmured  Lady  Masters. 

"  It  was,"  agreed  Burnaby ;  "  but  it  might  have  been 
worse — for  me,  that  is.  It  couldn't  have  been  much 
worse  for  the  poor  devil  of  an  Indian,  could  it?  But  I 
had  a  pretty  fair  idea  of  the  country,  and  had  only  about 
fifty  miles  to  walk,  and  a  little  waterproof  box  of  grub 
turned  up  out  of  the  wreck,  so  I  wasn't  in  any  danger  of 
starving.  It  was  lonely,  though  —  it's  lonely  enough 
country,  anyhow,  and  of  course  I  couldn't  help  thinking 
about  that  Indian  and  the  way  big  rapids  roar,  I  couldn't 
sleep  when  night  came  —  saw  black  rocks  sticking  up  out 
of  white  water  like  the  fangs  of  a  mad  dog.  I  was  pretty 
near  the  horrors,  I  guess.  So  you  can  imagine  I  wasn't 
sorry  when,  about  four  o'clock  of  the  next  afternoon,  I 
came  back  to  the  river  again  and  a  teepee  standing  up  all 
by  itself  on  a  little  pine-crowned  bluff.  In  front  of  the 
teepee  was  an  old  squaw  —  she  wasn't  very  old,  really, 
but  you  know  how  Indians  get  —  boiling  something  over 
a  fire  in  a  big  pot.  *  How  ! '  I  said,  and  she  grunted.  *  If 
you'll  lend  me  part  of  your  fire,  I'll  make  some  tea,'  I 
continued.  *  And  if  you're  good,  I'll  give  you  some  when 
it's  done.'  Tea  was  one  of  the  things  cached  in  the  little 
box  that  had  been  saved.  She  moved  the  pot  to  one  side, 
so  I  judged  she  understood,  and  I  trotted  down  to  the 
river  for  water  and  set  to  work.  As  you  can  guess,  I 
was  pretty  anxious  for  any  kind  of  conversation  by  then, 
so  after  a  while  I  said  brightly :  *  All  alone  ? '  She 
grunted  again  and  pointed  over  her  shoulder  to  the  tee- 
pee.    '  Well,  seeing  you're  so  interested,'  said  I,  *  and 


50  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

that  the  tea's  done,  we'll  all  go  inside  and  ask  your  man 
to  a  party  —  if  you'll  dig  up  two  tin  cups.  I've  got  one 
of  my  own.'  She  raised  the  flap  of  the  teepee  and  I  fol- 
lowed her.  I  could  see  she  wasn't  a  person  who  wasted 
words.  Inside  a  little  fire  was  smouldering,  and  seated 
with  his  back  to  us  was  a  big,  broad-shouldered  buck, 
with  a  dark  blanket  wrapped  around  him.  *  Your  good 
wife,'  I  began  cheerily  —  I  was  getting  pretty  darned 
sick  of  silence  — '  has  allowed  me  to  make  some  tea  over 
your  fire.  Have  some?  I'm  shipwrecked  from  a  canoe 
and  on  my  way  to  Lower  Post.  If  you  don't  understand 
what  I  say,  it  doesn't  make  the  slightest  difference,  but 
for  God's  sake  grunt  —  just  once,  to  show  you're  inter- 
ested.' He  grunted.  '  Thanks ! '  I  said,  and  poured  the 
tea  into  the  three  tin  cups.  The  squaw  handed  one  to 
her  buck.     Then  I  sat  down. 

"There  was  nothing  to  be  heard  but  the  gurgling  of 
the  river  outside  and  the  rather  noisy  breathing  we  three 
made  as  we  drank;  and  then  —  very  clearly,  just  as  if 
we'd  been  sitting  in  an  English  drawing-room  —  in  the 
silence  a  voice  said  :  '  By  Jove,  that's  the  first  decent  cup 
of  tea  I've  had  in  ten  years!'  Yes,  just  that!  'By 
Jove,  that's  the  first  decent  cup  of  tea  I've  had  in  ten 
years ! '  I  looked  at  the  buck,  but  he  hadn't  moved,  and 
then  I  looked  at  the  squaw,  and  she  was  still  squatting 
and  sipping  her  tea,  and  then  I  said,  very  quietly,  for  I 
knew  my  nerves  were  still  ragged,  '  Did  any  one  speak  ? ' 
and  the  buck  turned  slowly  and  looked  me  up  and  down, 
and  I  saw  the  nose  I  was  talking  about  —  the  nose  like  a 
Norman  king's.  I  was  rattled,  I  admit;  I  forgot  my 
manners.     *  You're  English  ! '  I  gasped  out ;  and  the  buck 

said  very  sweetly :     *  That's  none  of  your  damned  busi- 

„_„„  >  >) 

ness. 

Bumaby  paused  and  looked  about  the  circle  of  atten- 
tive faces.  "  That's  all.  But  it's  enough,  isn't  it  ?  To 
come  out  of  nothing,  going  nowheres,  and  run  into  a 
dirty  Indian  who  says :  *  By  Jove,  that's  the  first  de- 
cent cup  of  tea  I've  had  in  ten  years ! '     And  then  along 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  51 

comes  this  Terhune  and  says  that  he  knows  the  man." 

Mrs.  Malcolm  raised  her  chin  from  the  hand  that  had 
been  supporting  it.  "  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  said,  "  for 
being  late." 

"  And  this  man,"  interrupted  Sir  John's  sonorous 
voice,  "  this  squaw-man,  did  he  tell  you  anything  about 
himself?" 

Burnaby  shook  his  head.  , "  Not  likely,"  he  answered. 
"  I  tried  to  draw  him  out,  but  he  wasn't  drawable.  Fi- 
nally he  said:  *  If  you'll  shut  your  damned  mouth  I'll 
give  you  two  dirty  blankets  to  sleep  on.  If  you  won't, 
I'll  kick  you  out  of  here.'  The  next  morning  I  pulled 
out,  leaving  him  crouched  over  the  little  teepee  fire  nurs- 
ing his  knees.  But  I  hadn't  gone  twenty  yards  when  he 
came  to  the  flap  and  called  out  after  me :  'I  say ! '  I 
turned  about  sullenly.  His  dirty  face  had  a  queer, 
cracked  smile  on  it.  *  Look  here !  Do  you  —  where  did 
you  get  that  tea  from,  anyway?  I — there's  a  lot  of 
skins  I've  got ;  I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  trade,  would 
you?'  I  took  the  tea  out  of  the  air-tight  box  and  put 
it  on  the  ground.  Then  I  set  off  down  river.  Hender- 
son, the  factor  at  Lower  Post,  told  me  a  little  about  him : 
his  name  —  it  wasn't  assumed,  it  seems ;  and  that  he'd 
been  in  the  country  about  fifteen  years,  going  from  bad  to 
worse.  He  was  certainly  at  '  worse '  when  I  saw  him." 
Burnaby  paused  and  stared  across  the  table  again  with 
his  curious,  far-away  look.  "  Beastly,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said, 
as  if  to  himself.  "Cold  up  there  now,  too!  The  snow 
must  be  deep."  He  came  back  to  the  present.  "  And  I 
suppose,  you  know,"  he  said,  smiling  deprecatingly  at 
Mrs.  Selden,  "  he's  just  as  fond  of  flowers  and  lights  and 
things  as  we  are." 

Mrs.  Selden  shivered. 

"Fonder!"  said  Sir  John.  "Probably  fonder.  That 
sort  is.  It's  the  poets  of  the  world  who  can't  write  poetry 
who  go  to  smash  that  way.  They  ought  to  take  a  term 
at  business,  and  " —  he  reflected  —  "  the  business  men,  of 
course,  at  poetry."     He  regarded  Burnaby  with  his  in- 


52  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

scnitable  eyes,  in  the  depths  of  which  danced  little  flecks 
of  light. 

"  What  did  you  say  this  man's  name  was  ? "  asked 
Lady  Masters,  in  her  soft  voice.  She  had  an  extraor- 
dinary way  of  advancing,  with  a  timid  rush,  as  it  were, 
into  the  foreground,  and  then  receding  again,  melting 
back  into  the  shadows.  She  rarely  ever  spoke  without  a 
sensation  of  astonishment  making  itself  felt.  "  She  is 
like  a  mist,"  thought  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

"  Bewsher,"  said  Burnaby  — "  Geofifrey  Boisselier 
Bewsher.  Quite  a  name,  isn't  it?  He  was  in  the  cav- 
alry. His  family  are  rather  swells  in  an  old-fashioned 
way.  He  is  the  fifth  son  —  or  seventh,  or  whatever  it  is 
—  of  a  baronet  and,  Terhune  says,  was  very  much  in 
evidence  about  London  twenty-odd  years  ago.  Terhune 
used  to  see  him  in  clubs,  and  every  now  and  then  dining 
out.  Although  he  himself,  of  course,  was  a  much 
younger  man.  Very  handsome  he  was,  too,  Terhune 
said,  and  a  favorite.  And  then  one  day  he  just  disap- 
peared —  got  out  —  no  one  knows  exactly  why.  Ter- 
hune doesn't.  Lost  his  money,  or  a  woman,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  The  usual  thing,  I  suppose.  I  —  You 
didn't  hurt  yourself,  did  you?"  .  .  . 

He  had  paused  abruptly  and  was  looking  across  the 
table;  for  there  had  been  a  little  tinkle  and  a  crash  of 
breaking  glass,  and  now  a  pool  of  champagne  was  form- 
ing beside  Lady  Masters's  plate,  and  finding  its  way  in  a 
thin  thread  of  gold  along  the  cloth.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  and  then  she  advanced  again  out  of  the 
shadows  with  her  curious  soft  rush.  "  How  clumsy  I 
am  !  "  she  murmured.  "  My  arm  —  My  bracelet !  I  — 
I'm  so  sorry !  "  She  looked  swiftly  about  her,  and  then 
at  Burnaby.  "  Oh,  no !  I'm  not  cut,  thanks !  "  Her 
eyes  held  a  pained  embarrassment.  He  caught  the  look, 
and  her  eyelids  flickered  and  fell  before  his  gaze,  and 
then,  as  the  footman  repaired  the  damage,  she  sank  back 
once  more  into  the  half-light  beyond  the  radiance  of  the 
candles.     "  How   shy  she  is !  "  thought  Burnaby.     "  So 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BTJRT  53 

many  of  these  English  women  are.  She's  an  impor- 
tant woman  in  her  own  right,  too."  He  studied  her 
furtively. 

Into  the  soft  silence  came  Sir  John's  carefully  modu- 
lated voice.  "  Barbara  and  I,"  he  explained,  "  will  feel 
this  very  much.  We  both  knew  Bewsher."  His  eyes 
became  somber.  "  This  is  very  distressing,"  he  said 
abruptly. 

"  By  Jove ! "  ejaculated  Burnaby,  and  raised  his  head 
like  an  alert  hound. 

"  How  odd  it  all  is !  "  said  Mrs.  Malcolm.  But  she 
was  wondering  why  men  are  so  queer  with  their  wives — 
resent  so  much  the  slightest  social  clumsiness  on  their 
part,  while  in  other  women  — provided  the  offense  is  not 
too  great  —  it  merely  amuses  them.  Even  the  guarded 
manners  of  Sir  John  had  been  disturbed.  For  a  moment 
he  had  been  very  angry  with  the  shadow  that  bore  his 
name;  one  could  tell  by  the  swift  glance  he  had  cast  in 
her  direction.  After  all,  upsetting  a  glass  of  champagne 
was  a  very  natural  sequel  to  a  story  such  as  Burnal^y  had 
told,  a  story  about  a  former  acquaintance  —  perhaps 
friend. 

Sir  John  thoughtfully  helped  himself  to  a  spoonful  of 
his  dessert  before  he  looked  up ;  when  he  did  so  he  laid 
down  his  spoon  and  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  the  manner 
of  a  man  who  has  made  a  sudden  decision.  "  No,"  he 
said,  and  an  unexpected  little  smile  hovered  about  his 
lips,  "  it  isn't  so  odd.  Bewsher  was  rather  a  figure  of 
a  man  twenty  years  ago.     Shall  I  tell  you  his  history?  " 

To  Mrs.  Malcolm,  watching  with  alert,  humorous  eyes, 
there  came  a  curious  impression,  faint  but  distinct,  like 
wind  touching  her  hair;  as  if,  that  is,  a  door  into  the 
room  had  opened  and  shut.  She  leaned  forward,  sup- 
porting her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said. 

Sir  John  twisted  between  his  fingers  the  stem  of  his 
champagne-glass  and  studied  thoughtfully  the  motes  of 
light  at  the  heart  of  the  amber  wine.    '*  You  see,"  he 


54  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

began  thoughtfully,  "  it's  such  a  difficult  story  to  tell  — 
difficult  because  it  took  twenty-five  —  and,  now  that  Mr. 
Burnaby  has  furnished  the  sequel,  forty-five  years  —  to 
live ;  and  difficult  because  it  is  largely  a  matter  of  psychol- 
ogy. I  can  only  give  you  the  high  lights,  as  it  were. 
You  must  fill  in  the  rest  for  yourselves.  You  must  im- 
agine, that  is,  Bewsher  and  this  other  fellow  —  this  Mor- 
ton. I  can't  give  you  his  real  name  —  it  is  too  important ; 
you  would  know  it.  No,  it  isn't  obviously  dramatic. 
And  yet  — "  his  voice  suddenly  became  vibrant  — "  such 
things  compose,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  real  drama  of 
the  world.  It — "  he  looked  about  the  table  swiftly  and 
leaned  forward,  and  then,  as  if  interrupting  himself,  "  but 
what  was  obviously  dramatic,"  he  said  —  and  the  little 
dancing  sparks  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes  were  peculiarly 
noticeable  — "  was  the  way  I,  of  all  people,  heard  it. 
Yes.  You  see,  I  heard  it  at  a  dinner  party  like  this,  in 
London ;  and  Morton  —  the  man  himself  —  told  the 
story."  He  paused,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  studied 
the  effect  of  his  announcement. 

"  You  mean  —  ?  "  asked  Burnaby. 

"  Exactly."  Sir  John  spoke  with  a  certain  cool  eager- 
ness. "  He  sat  up  before  all  those  people  and  told  the 
inner  secrets  of  his  life ;  and  of  them  all  I  was  the  only 
one  who  suspected  the  truth.  Of  course,  he  was  com- 
paratively safe,  none  of  them  knew  him  well  except  my- 
self, but  think  of  it !  The  bravado  —  the  audacity ! 
Rather  magnificent,  wasn't  it  ? "  He  sank  back  once 
more  in  his  chair. 

Mrs.  Malcolm  agreed.  "  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Magnifi- 
cent and  insulting." 

Sir  John  smiled.  "  My  dear  lady,"  he  asked,  "  doesn't 
life  consist  largely  of  insults  from  the  strong  to  the 
weak?" 

"  And  were  all  these  people  so  weak,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  in  their  own  way  they  were  fairly  important,  I 
suppose,  but  compared  to  Morton  they  were  weak  — 
very  weak  —    Ah,  yes !     I  like  this  custom  of  smoking  at 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  55 

table.  Thanks!"  He  selected  a  cigarette  deliberately, 
and  stooped  toward  the  proffered  match.  The  flame  il- 
lumined the  swarthy  curve  of  his  beard  and  the  heavy 
Hnes  of  his  dark  face.  "  You  see,"  he  began,  straighten- 
ing up  in  his  chair,  "the  whole  thing  —  that  part  of  it, 
and  the  part  I'm  to  tell  —  is  really,  if  you  choose,  an 
allegory  of  strength,  of  strength  and  weakness.  On 
the  one  side  Morton  —  there's  strength,  sheer,  undiluted 
power,  the  thing  that  runs  the  world;  and  on  the  other 
Bewsher,  the  ordinary  man,  with  all  his  mixed-up  ideas 
of  right  and  wrong  and  the  impossible,  confused  thing 
he  calls  a  '  code  ' —  Bewsher,  and  later  on  the  girl.  She 
too  is  part  of  the  allegory.  She  represents  —  what  shall 
I  say?  A  composite  portrait  of  the  ordinary  young 
woman?  Religion,  I  suppose.  Worldly  religion.  The 
religion  of  most  of  my  good  friends  in  England.  A 
vague  but  none  the  less  passionate  belief  in  a  heaven 
populated  by  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  dine  out  with  a 
God  who  resembles  royalty.  And  coupled  with  this  re- 
ligion the  girl  had,  of  course,  as  have  most  of  her  class, 
a  very  distinct  sense  of  her  own  importance  in  the  world ; 
not  that  exactly  —  personally  she  was  over-modest ;  a 
sense  rather  of  her  importance  as  a  unit  of  an  important 
family,  and  a  deep-rooted  conviction  of  the  fundamental 
necessity  of  unimportant  things:  parties,  and  class-wor- 
ship, and  the  whole  jumbled-up  order  as  it  is.  The  usual 
young  woman,  that  is,  if  you  lay  aside  her  unusual  beauty. 
And,  you  see,  people  like  Bewsher  and  the  girl  haven't 
much  chance  against  a  man  like  ]\Iorton,  have  they?  Do 
you  remember  the  girl,  my  dear  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  to 
his  wife. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Lady  Masters. 

"Well,  then,"  continued  Sir  John,  "you  must  imagine 
this  Morton,  an  ugly  little  boy  of  twelve,  going  up  on  a 
scholarship  to  a  great  public  school  —  a  rather  bitter  little 
boy,  without  any  particular  prospects  ahead  of  him  ex- 
cept those  his  scholarship  held  out;  and  back,  of  him  a 
poor,  stunted  life,  with  a  mother  in  it  —  a  sad  dehuman- 


56  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

ized  creature,  I  gathered,  who  subsisted  on  the  bounty 
of  a  niggardly  brother.  And  this,  you^  can  understand, 
was  the  first  thing  that  made  Morton  hate  virtue  devoid 
of  strength.  His  mother,  he  told  me,  was  the  best  woman 
he  had  ever  known.  The  world  had  beaten  her  unmer- 
cifully. His  earliest  recollection  was  hearing  her  cry  at 
night.  .  .  .  And  there,  at  the  school,  he  had  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  great  world  that  up  to  then  he  had  only 
dimly  suspected.  Dramatic  enough  in  itself,  isn't  it?  — 
if  you  can  visualize  the  little  dark  chap.  A  common 
enough  drama,  too,  the  Lord  knows.  We  people  on  top 
are  bequeathing  misery  to  our  posterity  when  we  let  the 
Mortons  of  the  world  hate  the  rich.  And  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  other  boys  of  his  age  at  the  school 
was  Bewsher;  not  that  materially,  of  course,  there  weren't 
others  more  important ;  Bewsher's  family  was  old  and 
rich  as  such  families  go,  but  he  was  very  much  a  younger 
son,  and  his  people  lived  mostly  in  the  country;  yet  even 
then  there  was  something  about  him  —  a  manner,  an 
adeptness  in  sports,  an  unsought  popularity,  that  picked 
him  out ;  the  beginnings  of  that  Norman  nose  that  Mr. 
Burnaby  has  mentioned.  And  here  " —  Sir  John  paused 
and  pufifed  thoughtfully  at  his  cigarette  — "  is  the  first 
high  light. 

"  To  begin  with,  of  course,  Morton  hated  Bewsher  and 
all  he  represented,  hated  him  in  a  way  that  only  a  boy 
of  his  nature  can ;  and  then,  one  day  —  I  don't  know 
exactly  when  it  could  have  been,  probably  a  year  or  two 
after  he  had  gone  up  to  school  —  he  began  to  see  quite 
clearly  what  this  hate  meant ;  began  to  see  that  for  such 
as  he  to  hate  the  Bewshers  of  the  world  was  the  sheerest 
folly  —  a  luxury  far  beyond  his  means.  Quaint,  wasn't 
it  ?  In  a  boy  of  his  age !  You  can  imagine  him  working 
it  out  at  night,  in  his  narrow  dormitory  bed,  when  the 
other  boys  were  asleep.  You  see,  he  realized,  dimly  at 
first,  clearly  at  last,  that  through  Bewsher  and  his  kind 
lay  the  hope  of  Morton  and  his  kind.  Nice  little  boys 
think  the  same  thing,  only  they  are  trained  not  to  admit 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  57 

it.  That  was  the  first  big  moment  of  Morton's  life,  and 
with  the  determination  characteristic  of  him  he  set  out 
to  accomphsh  what  he  had  decided.  In  England  we 
make  our  future  through  our  friends,  in  this  country  you 
make  it  through  your  enemies.  But  it  wasn't  easy  for 
Morton;  such  tasks  never  are.  He  had  a  good  many 
insults  to  swallow.  In  the  end,  however,  from  being 
tolerated  he  came  to  be  indispensable,  and  from  being 
indispensable  eventually  to  be  liked.  He  had  planned 
his  campaign  with  care.  Carefulness,  recklessly  carried 
out,  has  been,  I  think,  the  guiding  rule  of  his  life.  He 
had  modelled  himself  on  Bewsher;  he  walked  like  Bew- 
sher;  tried  to  think  like  Bewsher  —  that  is,  in  the  less 
important  things  of  life  —  and,  with  the  divination  that 
marks  his  type  of  man,  the  little  money  he  had,  the  little 
money  that  as  a  schoolboy  he  could  borrdw,  he  had  spent 
with  precision  on  clothes  and  other  things  that  brought 
him  personal  distinction ;  in  what  people  call  necessities 
he  starved  himself.  By  the  time  he  was  ready  to  leave 
school  you  could  hardly  have  told  him  from  the  man  he 
had  set  out  to  follow :  he  was  equally  well-mannered ; 
equally  at  his  ease;  if  anything,  more  conscious  of  pre- 
rogative than  Bewsher.  He  had  come  to  spend  most  of 
his  holidays  at  Bewsher's  great  old  house  in  Gloucester- 
shire. That,  too,  was  an  illumination.  It  showed  him 
what  money  was  made  for  —  the  sunny  quiet  of  the  place, 
the  wheels  of  a  spacious  living  that  ran  so  smoothly,  the 
long  gardens,  the  inevitableness  of  it  all.  Some  day,  he 
told  himself,  he  would  have  just  such  a  house.  He  has. 
It  is  his  mistress.  The  world  has  not  allowed  him  much 
of  the  poetry  that,  as  you  must  already  see,  the  man  has 
in  him ;  he  takes  it  out  on  his  place. 

"  It  was  in  Morton's  last  year  at  Oxford,  just  before 
his  graduation,  that  the  second  great  moment  of  his  life 
occurred.  He  had  done  well  at  his  college,  not  a  poor 
college  either;  and  all  the  while,  you  must  remember, 
he  was  borrowing  money  and  running  up  bills.  But  this 
didn't  bother  him.     He  was  perfectly  assured  in  his  own 


58  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

mind  concerning  his  future.  He  had  counted  costs.  In 
that  May,  Bewsher,  who  from  school  had  gone  to  Sand- 
hurst, came  up  on  a  visit  with  two  or  three  other  fledg- 
ling officers,  and  they  had  a  dinner  in  Morton's  rooms. 
It  turned  into  rather  a  '  rag,'  as  those  things  do,  and  it 
was  there,  across  a  flower-strewn,  wine-stained  table,  that 
Morton  had  his  second  revelation.  He  wasn't  drunk  — 
he  never  got  drunk ;  the  others  were.  The  thing  came 
in  upon  him  slowly,  warmingly,  like  the  breeze  that 
stirred  the  curtains.  He  felt  himself,  as  never  before,  a 
man.  You  can  see  him  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  in  the 
smoke  and  the  noise  and  the  foolish  singing,  cool,  his  eyes 
a  little  closed.  He  knew  now  that  he  had  passed  the  level 
of  these  men ;  yes,  even  the  shining  mark  Bewsher  had 
set.  He  had  gone  on,  while  they  had  stood  still.  To 
him,  he  suddenly  realized,  and  to  such  as  he,  belonged 
the  heritage  of  the  years,  not  to  these  men  who  thought 
they  held  it.  These  old  gray  buildings  stretching  away 
into  the  May  dusk,  the  history  of  a  thousand  years,  were 
his.  These  sprawled  young  aristocrats  before  him  — 
they,  whether  they  eventually  came  to  know  it  or  not, 
they,  and  Bewsher  with  them  —  would  one  day  do  his 
bidding:  come  when  he  beckoned,  go  when  he  sent.  It 
was  a  big  thought,  wasn't  it,  for  a  man  of  twenty-two  ?  " 
Sir  John  paused  and  puffed  at  his  cigarette. 

"  That  was  the  second  high  light,"  he  continued,  "  and 
the  third  did  not  come  until  fifteen  years  later.  Bewsher 
went  into  the  Indian  army  —  his  family  had  ideas  of 
service  —  and  Morton  into  a  banking-house  in  London. 
And  there,  as  deliberately  as  he  had  taken  them  up,  he 
laid  aside  for  the  time  being  all  the  social  perquisites 
which  he  had  with  so  much  pains  acquired.  Do  you 
know  —  he  told  me  that  for  fifteen  years  not  once  had 
he  dined  out,  except  when  he  thought  his  ambitions  would 
be  furthered  by  so  doing,  and  then,  as  one  turns  on  a 
tap,  he  turned  on  the  charm  he  now  knew  himself  to 
possess.  It  is  not  astonishing,  is  it,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  that  eventually  he  became  rich  and  famous? 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  59 

Most  people  are  unwilling  to  sacrifice  their  youth  to  their 
future.  He  wasn't.  But  it  wasn't  a  happy  time.  He 
hated  it.  He  paid  off  his  debts,  however,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  fifteen  years  found  himself  a  big  man  in  a 
small  way,  with  every  prospect  of  becoming  a  big  man 
in  a  big  way.  Then,  of  course  —  such  men  do  —  he  be- 
gan to  look  about  him.  He  wanted  wider  horizons,  he 
wanted  luxury,  he  wanted  a  wife;  and  he  wanted  them 
as  a  starved  man  wants  food.  He  experienced  compara- 
tively little  difficulty  in  getting  started.  Some  of  his 
school  and  university  friends  remembered  him,  and  there 
was  a  whisper  about  that  he  was  a  man  that  bore  watch- 
ing. But  afterward  he  stuck.  The  inner  citadel  of  Lon- 
don is  by  no  means  as  assailable  as  the  outer  fortifica- 
tions lead  one  to  suppose. 

"  They  say  a  man  never  has  a  desire  but  there's  an 
angel  or  a  devil  to  write  it  down.  Morton  had  hardly 
made  his  discovery  when  Bewsher  turned  up  from  In- 
dia, transferred  to  a  crack  cavalry  regiment;  a  sunburnt, 
cordial  Bewsher,  devilishly  determined  to  enjoy  the  ful- 
ness of  his  prime.  On  his  skirts,  as  he  had  done  once 
before,  Morton  penetrated  farther  and  farther  into  the 
esoteric  heart  of  society.  I'm  not  sure  just  how  Bew- 
sher felt  toward  Morton  at  the  time ;  he  liked  him,  I 
think;  at  all  events,  he  had  the  habit  of  him.  As  for 
Morton,  he  liked  Bewsher  as  much  as  he  dared ;  he  never 
permitted  himself  to  like  any  one  too  much. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  I  have  noticed 
again  and  again  that  intimate  friends  are  prone  to  fall  in 
love  with  the  same  woman:  perhaps  it  is  because  they 
have  so  many  tastes  in  common;  perhaps  it  is  jealousy  — 
I  don't  know.  Anyhow,  that  is  what  happened  to  these 
two,  Morton  first,  then  Bewsher;  and  it  is  characteristic 
that  the  former  mentioned  it  to  no  one,  while  the  latter 
was  confidential  and  expansive.  Such  men  do  not  de- 
serve women,  and  yet  they  are  often  the  very  men  women 
fall  most  in  love  with.  At  first  the  girl  had  been  at- 
tracted to  Morton,  it  seems ;  he  intrigued  her  —  no  doubt 


6o  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

the  sense  of  power  about  him ;  but  the  handsomer  man, 
when  he  entered  the  running,  speedily  drew  ahead.  You 
can  imagine  the  effect  of  this  upon  her  earlier  suitor. 
It  was  the  first  rebuff  that  for  a  long  time  had  occurred 
to  him  in  his  ordered  plan  of  life.  He  resented  it  and 
turned  it  over  in  his  mind,  and  eventually,  as  it  always 
does  to  men  of  his  kind,  his  opportunity  came.  You  see, 
unlike  Bewsher  and  his  class,  all  his  days  had  been  an 
exercise  in  the  recognition  and  appreciation  of  chances. 
He  isolated  the  inevitable  fly  in  the  ointment,  and  in  this 
particular  ointment  the  fly  happened  to  be  Bewsher's 
lack  of  money  and  the  education  the  girl  had  received. 
She  was  poor  in  the  way  that  only  the  daughter  of  a 
great  house  can  be.  To  Morton,  once  he  was  aware  of 
the  fly,  and  once  he  had  combined  the  knowledge  of  it 
with  what  these  two  people  most  lacked,  it  was  a  simple 
thing.  They  lacked,  as  you  have  already  guessed,  cour- 
age and  directness.  On  Morton's  side  was  all  the  dunder- 
headism  of  an  aristocracy,  all  its  romanticism,  all  its 
gross  materialism,  all  its  confusion  of  ideals.  But  you 
mustn't  think  that  he,  Morton,  was  cold  or  objective  in 
all  this :  far  from  it ;  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  the 
girl  himself,  and  he  was  playing  his  game  like  a  man 
in  a  comer  —  all  his  wits  about  him,  but  fever  in  his 
heart. 

"  There  was  the  situation,  an  old  one  —  a  girl  who 
dare  not  marry  a  poor  man,  and  a  poor  man  cracking 
his  brains  to  know  where  to  get  money  from.  I  dare 
say  Bewsher  never  questioned  the  rightness  of  it  all  — 
he  was  too  much  in  love  with  the  girl,  his  own  training 
had  been  too  similar.  And  Morton,  hovering  on  the  out- 
skirts, talked  —  to  weak  people  the  most  fatal  doctrine 
in  the  world  —  the  doctrine  of  power,  the  doctrine  that 
each  man  and  woman  can  have  just  what  they  want  if 
they  will  only  get  out  and  seek  it.  That's  true  for  the  big 
people ;  for  the  small  it  usually  spells  death.  They  falter 
on  methods.  They  are  too  afraid  of  unimportant  details. 
His  insistence  had  its  results  even  more  speedily  than  he 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  6i 

had  hoped.  Before  long  the  girl,  too,  was  urging  Bew- 
sher  on  to  effort.  It  isn't  the  first  time  goodness  has 
sent  weakness  to  the  devil.  Meanwhile  the  instigator 
dropped  from  his  one-time  position  of  tentative  lover  to 
that  of  adviser  in  particular.  It  was  just  the  position 
that  at  the  time  he  most  desired. 

"  Things  came  to  a  head  on  a  warm  night  in  April. 
Bewsher  dropped  in  upon  Morton  in  his  chambers.  Very 
handsome  he  looked,  too,  I  dare  say,  in  his  evening 
clothes,  with  an  opera-coat  thrown  back  from  his  shoul- 
ders. I  remember  well  myself  his  grand  air,  with  a  touch 
of  cavalry  swagger  about  it.  I've  no  doubt  he  leaned 
against  the  chimney-piece  and  tapped  his  leg  with  his 
stick.  And  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  he  wanted  money. 
"  Oh,  no !  not  a  loan.  It  wasn't  as  bad  as  that.  He  had 
enough  to  screw  along  with  himself ;  although  he  was 
frightfully  in  debt.  He  wanted  a  big  sum.  An  income. 
To  make  money,  that  was.  He  didn't  want  to  go  into 
business  if  he  could  help  it;  hadn't  any  ability  that  way; 
hated  it.  But  perhaps  Morton  could  put  him  in  the  way 
of  something?     He  didn't  mind  chances." 

"Do  you  see?"  Sir  John  leaned  forward.  "And  he 
never  realized  the  vulgarity  of  it  —  that  product  of  five 
centuries,  that  English  gentleman.  Never  realized  the 
vulgarity  of  demanding  of  life  something  for  nothing; 
of  asking  from  a  man  as  a  free  gift  what  that  man  had 
sweated  for  and  starved  for  all  his  life ;  yes,  literally,  all 
his  life.  It  was  an  illumination,  as  Morton  said,  upon 
that  pitiful  thing  we  call  '  class.'  He  demanded  all  this 
as  his  right,  too ;  demanded  power,  the  one  precious  pos- 
session. Well,  the  other  man  had  his  code  as  well,  and 
the  first  paragraph  in  it  was  that  a  man  shall  get  only 
what  he  works  for.  Can  you  imagine  him,  the  little  ugly 
man,  sitting  at  his  table  and  thinking  all  this  ?  And  sud- 
denly he  got  to  his  feet.  *  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I'll  make  you 
a  rich  man.'  But  he  didn't  say  he  would  keep  him  one. 
That  was  the  third  high  light  —  the  little  man  standing 
where  all  through  the  ages  had  stood  men  like  him,  the 


62  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

secret  movers  of  the  world,  while  before  them,  supplicat- 
ing, had  passed  the  beauty  and  the  pride  of  their  times. 
In  the  end  they  all  beg  at  the  feet  of  power  —  the  kings 
and  the  fighting  men.  And  yet,  although  this  was  the 
great,  hidden  triumph  of  his  life,  and,  moreover,  beyond 
his  hopes  a  realization  of  the  game  he  had  been  playing 
—  for  it  put  Bewsher,  you  see,  utterly  in  his  power  — 
Morton  said  at  the  moment  it  made  him  a  little  sick.  It 
was  too  crude ;  Bewsher's  request  too  unashamed ;  it 
made  suddenly  too  cheap,  since  men  could  ask  for  it  so 
lightly,  all  the  stakes  for  which  he,  Morton,  had  sacrificed 
the  slow  minutes  and  hours  of  his  life.  And  then,  of 
course,  there  was  this  as  well:  Bewsher  had  been  to 
Morton  an  ideal,  and  ideals  can't  die,  even  the  memory 
of  them,  without  some  pain." 

Mrs.  Malcolm,  watching  with  lips  a  little  parted,  said 
to  herself:     "  He  has  uncoiled  too  much." 

"  Yes  " —  Sir  John  reached  out  his  hand  and,  picking 
up  a  long-stemmed  rose  from  the  table,  began  idly  to 
twist  it  in  his  fingers.  "  And  that  was  the  end.  From 
then  on  the  matter  was  simple.  It  was  like  a  duel  be- 
tween a  trained  swordsman  and  a  novice ;  only  it  wasn't 
really  a  duel  at  all,  for  one  of  the  antagonists  was  un- 
aware that  he  was  fighting.  I  suppose  that  most  people 
would  call  it  unfair.  I  have  wondered.  And  yet  Bew- 
sher, in  a  polo  game,  or  in  the  game  of  social  life,  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  use  all  the  skill  and  craft  he  knew. 
But,  you  say,  he  would  not  have  played  against  beginners. 
Well,  he  had  asked  himself  into  this  game ;  he  had  not 
been  invited.  And  so,  all  through  that  spring  and  into 
the  summer  and  autumn  the  three-cornered  contest  went 
on,  and  into  the  winter  and  on  to  the  spring  beyond.  Un- 
wittingly, the  girl  was  playing  more  surely  than  ever 
into  Morton's  hand.  The  increasing  number  of  Bew- 
sher's platitudes  about  wealth,  about  keeping  up  tradi- 
tion, about  religion,  showed  that.  He  even  talked  vaguely 
about  giving  up  the  army  and  going  into  business.  '  It 
must   have   its    fascinations,   you    know,'    he    remarked 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  63 

lightly.  In  the  eyes  of  both  of  them  Morton-  had  become 
a  sort  of  fairy  godfather  —  a  mysterious,  wonderful 
gnome  at  whose  beck  gold  leaped  from  the  mountain- 
side. It  was  just  the  illusion  he  wished  to  create.  In 
the  final  analysis  the  figure  of  the  gnome  is  the  most  be- 
loved figure  in  the  rotten  class  to  which  we  belong. 

"  And  then,  just  as  spontaneously  as  it  had  come,  Bew- 
sher's  money  began  to  melt  away  —  slowly  at  first ;  faster 
afterward  until,  finally,  he  was  back  again  to  his  original 
income.  This  was  a  time  of  stress,  of  hurried  consulta- 
tions, of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  Morton,  of  some  rather 
ugly  funk  on  the  part  of  Bewsher;  and  Morton  realized 
that  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  he  was  rapidly  becoming  once 
more  the  dominant  figure.  It  didn't  do  him  much  good  " 
— Sir  John  broke  the  stem  of  the  rose  between  his  fingers. 

"  Soon  there  was  an  end  to  it  all.  There  came,  finally, 
a  very  unpleasant  evening.  This  too  was  in  April ;  April 
a  year  after  Bewsher's  visit  to  Morton's  chambers,  only 
this  time  the  scene  was  laid  in  an  office.  Bewsher  had 
put  a  check  on  the  desk.  '  Here,'  he  said,  *  that  will  tide 
me  over  until  I  can  get  on  my  feet,'  and  his  voice  was 
curiously  thick ;  and  Morton,  looking  down,  had  seen  that 
the  signature  wasn't  genuine  —  a  clumsy  business  done 
by  a  clumsy  man  —  and,  despite  all  his  training,  from 
what  he  said,  a  little  cold  shiver  had  run  up  and  down 
his  back.  This  had  gone  farther  than  he  had  planned. 
But  he  made  no  remark,  simply  pocketed  the  check,  and 
the  next  day  settled  out  of  his  own  pockets  Bewsher's 
sorry  aflfairs ;  put  him  back,  that  is,  where  he  had  started, 
with  a  small  income  mortgaged  beyond  hope.  Then  he 
sent  a  note  to  the  girl  requesting  an  interview  on  urgent 
business.  She  saw  him  that  night  in  her  drawing-room. 
She  was  very  lovely.  Morton  was  all  friendly  sympa- 
thy. It  wasn't  altogether  unreal,  either.  I  think,  from 
what  he  told  me,  he  was  genuinely  touched.  But  he  felt, 
you  know  —  the  urge,  the  goad,  of  his  own  career.  His 
kind  do.  Ultimately  they  are  not  their  own  masters.  He 
showed  the  girl  the  check  —  not  at  first,  you  understand, 


64  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

but  delicately,  after  preliminary  discussion;  reluctantly, 
upon  repeated  urging.  '  What  was  he  to  do?  What 
would  she  advise  ?  Bewsher  was  safe,  of  course ;  he  had 
seen  to  that ;  but  the  whole  unintelligible,  shocking  aspect 
of  the  thing ! '  He  tore  the  check  up  and  threw  it  in  the 
fire.  He  was  not  unaware  that  the  girl's  eyes  admired 
him.  It  was  a  warm  night.  He  said  good-by  and  walked 
home  along  the  deserted'  street.  He  remembered,  he  told 
me,  how  sweet  the  trees  smelled.  He  was  not  happy. 
You  see,  Bewsher  had  been  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
friend  he  had  ever  had. 

"  That  practically  finished  the  sordid  business.  What 
the  girl  said  to  Bewsher  Morton  never  knew ;  he  trusted 
to  her  conventionalized  religion  and  her  family  pride  to 
break  Bewsher's  heart,  and  to  Bewsher's  sentimentality 
to  eliminate  him  forever  from  the  scene.  In  both  sur- 
mises he  was  correct ;  he  was  only  not  aware  that  at  the 
same  time  the  girl  had  broken  her  own  heart.  He  found 
that  out  afterward.  And  Bewsher  eliminated  himself 
more  thoroughly  than  necessary.  I  suppose  the  shame 
of  the  thing  was  to  him  like  a  blow  to  a  thoroughbred, 
instead  of  an  incentive,  as  it  would  have  been  to  a  man 
of  coarser  fibre.  He  went  from  bad  to  worse,  resigned 
from  his  regiment,  finally  disappeared.  Personally,  I 
had  hoped  that  he  had  begun  again  somewhere  on  "the  out- 
skirts of  the  world.  But  he  isn't  that  sort.  There's  not 
much  of  the  Norman  king  to  him  except  his  nose.  The 
girl  married  Morton.  He  gave  her  no  time  to  recover 
from  her  gratitude.  He  felt  very  happy,  he  told  me, 
the  day  of  his  wedding,  very  elated.  It  was  one  of  those 
rare  occasions  when  he  felt  that  the  world  was  a  good 
place.  Another  high  light,  you  see.  And  it  was  no  mean 
thing,  if  you  consider  it,  for  a  man  such  as  he  to  marry 
the  daughter  of  a  peer,  and  at  the  same  time  to  love  her. 
He  was  not  a  gentleman,  you  understand,  he  could  never 
be  that  —  it  was  the  one  secret  thing  that  always  hurt 
him  —  no  amount  of  brains,  no  amount  of  courage  could 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  65 

make  him  what  he  wasn't;  he  never  lied  to  himself  as 
most  men  do ;  so  he  had  acquired  a  habit  of  secretly  tri- 
umphing over  those  who  possessed  the  gift.  The  other 
thing  that  hurt  him  was  when,  a  few  months  later,  he  dis- 
covered that  his  wife  still  loved  Bewsher  and  always 
would.  And  that  " —  Sir  John  picked  up  the  broken  rose 
again — "is,  I  suppose,  the  end  of  the  story." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then  Burnaby  lifted 
his  pointed  chin.  "  By  George!  "  he  said,  "  it  is  interest- 
ing to  know  how  things  really  happen,  isn't  it?  But  I 
think  —  you  have,  haven't  you,  left  out  the  real  point. 
Do  you  —  would  you  mind  telling  just  why  you  imagine 
Morton  did  this  thing?  Told  his  secret  before  all  those 
people?     It  wasn't  like  him,  was  it?  " 

Sir  John  slowly  lighted  another  cigarette,  and  then  he 
turned  to  Burnaby  and  smiled.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  was 
extremely  like  him.  Still,  it's  very  clever  of  you,  very 
clever.     Can't  you  guess  ?     It  isn't  so  very  difficult." 

"  No,"  said  Burnaby,  "  I  can't  guess  at  all." 

"  Well,  then,  listen."  And  to  Mrs.  Malcolm  it  seemed 
as  if  Sir  John  had  grown  larger,  had  merged  in  the  shad- 
ows about  him ;  at  least  he  gave  that  impression,  for  he 
sat  up  very  straight  and  threw  back  his  shoulders.  For 
a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  he  began.  "  You  must  go 
back  to  the  dinner  I  was  describing,"  he  said  — "  the  din- 
ner in  London.  I  too  was  intrigued  as  you  are,  and 
when  it  was  over  I  followed  Morton  out  and  walked  with 
him  toward  his  club.  And,  like  you,  I  asked  the  ques- 
tion. I  think  that  he  had  known  all  along  that  I  sus- 
pected; at  all  events,  it  is  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
he  did  not  try  to  bluflf  me.  He  walked  on  for  a  little 
while  in  silence,  and  then  he  laughed  abruptly.  *  Yes,' 
he  said,  '  I'll  tell  you.  Yes.  Just  this.  What  there  is 
to  be  got,  I've  got ;  what  work  can  win  I've  won  ;  but  back 
of  it  all  there's  something  else,  and  back  even  of  that 
there's  a  careless  god  who  gives  his  gifts  where  they  are 
least  deserved.    That's  one  reason  why  I  talked  as  I  did 


(^  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

to-night.  To  all  of  us  —  the  men  like  me  —  there  comes 
in  the  end  a  time  when  we  realize  that  what  a  man  can  do 
we  can  do,  but  that  love,  the  touch  of  other  people's 
minds,  these  two  things  are  the  gifts  of  the  careless  god. 
And  it  irritates  us,  I  suppose,  irritates  us !  We  want 
them  in  a  way  that  the  ordinary  man  who  has  them  can- 
not understand.  We  want  them  as  damned  souls  in  hell 
want  water.  And  sometimes  the  strain's  too  much.  It 
was  to-night.  To  touch  other  minds,  even  for  a  moment, 
even  if  they  hate  you  while  you  are  doing  it,  that's  the 
thing !  To  lay  yourself,  just  once,  bare  to  the  gaze  of  or- 
dinary people !  With  the  hope,  perhaps,  that  even  then 
they  may  still  find  in  you  something  to  admire  or  love. 
Self-revelation!  Every  man  confesses  sometime.  It 
happened  that  I  chose  a  dinner  party.  Do  you  under- 
stand?'" It  was  almost  as  if  Sir  John  himself  had 
asked  the  question. 

"  And  then  " —  he  was  speaking  in  his  usual  calm 
tones  again  — "  there  happened  a  curious  thing,  a  very 
curious  thing,  for  Morton  stopped  and  turned  toward 
me  and  began  to  laugh.  I  thought  he  would  never  stop. 
It  was  rather  uncanny,  under  the  street  lamp  there,  this 
usually  rather  quiet  man.  '  And  that,'  he  said  at  length, 
'that's  only  half  the  story.  The  cream  of  it  is  this:  the 
way  I  myself  felt,  sitting  there  among  all  those  soft, 
easily  lived  people.  That's  the  cream  of  it.  To  flout 
them,  to  sting  them,  to  laugh  at  them,  to  know  you  had 
more  courage  than  all  of  them  put  together,  you  who 
were  once  so  afraid  of  them !  To  feel  that  —  even  if 
they  knew  it  was  about  yourself  you  were  talking  —  that 
even  then  they  were  afraid  of  you,  and  would  to-morrow 
ask  you  back  again  to  their  houses.  That's  power ! 
That's  worth  doing!  After  all,  you  can  keep  your  love 
and  your  sympathy  and  your  gentlemen ;  it's  only  to  men 
like  me,  men  who've  sweated  and  come  up,  that  moments 
arise  such  as  I've  had  to-night.'  And  then,  '  It's  rather 
a:  pity,'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  'that  of  them  all  you 
alone  knew  of  whom  I  was  talking.     Rather  a  pity,  isn't 


.MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT  67 

it?'"  Sir  John  hesitated  and  looked  about  the  table. 
"  It  was  unusual,  wasn't  it  ?  "  he  said  at  length  gently. 
"  Have  I  been  too  dramatic  ?  " 

In  the  little  silence  that  followed,  Mrs.  Malcolm  leaned 
forward,  her  eyes  starry.  "  I  would  rather,"  she  said, 
"  talk  to  Bewsher  in  his  teepee  than  talk  to  Morton  with 
all  his  money." 

Sir  John  looked  at  her  and  smiled  —  his  charming 
smile.  "  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  no ! 
We  say  those  things,  but  we  don't  mean  them.  If  you 
sat  next  to  Morton  at  dinner  you'd  like  him ;  but  as  for 
Bewsher  you'd  despise  him,  as  all  right-minded  women 
despise  a  failure.     Oh,  no ;  you'd  prefer  Morton." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  sighed  Mrs.  Malcolm;  "pi- 
rates are  fascinating,  I  suppose."  She  arose  to  her  feet. 
Out  of  the  shadows  Lady  Masters  advanced  to  meet  her. 
"  She  is  like  a  mist,"  thought  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  Ex- 
actly like  a  rather  faint  mist." 

Burnaby  leaned  over  and  lit  a  cigarette  at  one  of  the 
candles.  "  And,  of  course,"  he  said  quietly,  without 
raising  his  head,  "  the  curious  thing  is  that  this  fellow 
Morton,  despite  all  his  talk  of  power,  in  the  end  is  merely 
a  ghost  of  Bewsher,  after  all>  isn't  he?" 

Sir  John  turned  and  looked  at  the  bowed  sleek  head 
with  a  puzzled  expression.  "  A  ghost ! "  he  murmured. 
"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand." 

"  It's  very  simple,"  said  Burnaby,  and  raised  his  head. 
"  Despite  all  Morton  has  done,  in  the  things  worth  while, 
in  the  things  he  wants  the  most,  he  can  at  best  be  only  a 
shadow  of  the  shadow  Bewsher  has  left  —  a  shadow  of  a 
man  to  the  woman  who  loves  Bewsher,  a  shadow  of  a 
friend  to  the  men  who  liked  Bewsher,  a  shadow  of  a 
gentleman  to  the  gentlemen  about  him.  A  ghost,  in  other 
words.  It's  the  inevitable  end  of  all  selfishness.  I  think 
Bewsher  has  rather  the  best  of  it,  don't  you?" 

"I  —  I  had  never  thought  of  it  in  quite  that  light," 
said  Sir  John,  and  followed  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

They  went  into  the  drawing-room  beyond  —  across  a 


68  A  CUP  OF  TEA 

hallway,  and  up  a  half -flight  of  stairs,  and  through  glass 
doors,  "  Play  for  us !  "  said  Mrs.  Malcolm,  and  Bur- 
naby,  that  remarkable  young  man,  sat  down  to  the  piano 
and  for  perhaps  an  hour  made  the  chords  sob  to  a 
strange  music,  mostly  his  own. 

"  That's  Bewsher !  "  he  said  when  he  was  through,  and 
had  sat  back  on  his  stool,  and  was  sipping  a  long-ne- 
glected cordial. 

"  Br-r-r- !  "  shivered  Mrs.  Selden  from  her  place  by 
the  fire.     "  How  unpleasant  you  are !  " 

Sir  John  looked  troubled.  "  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  my 
story  hasn't  depressed  you  too  much.  Burnaby's  was 
really  worse,  you  know.  Well,  I  must  be  going."  He 
turned  to  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  You  are  one  of  the  few 
women  who  can  make  me  sit  up  late." 

He  bade  each  in  turn  good-night  in  his  suave,  charm- 
ing, slightly  Hebraic  manner.  To  Burnaby  he  said: 
"  Thank  you  for  the  music.  Improvisation  is  perhaps 
the  happiest  of  gifts." 

But  Burnaby  for  once  was  awkward.  He  was  watch- 
ing Sir  John's  face  with  the  curious,  intent  look  of  a 
forest  animal  that  so  often  possessed  his  long,  dark  eyes. 
Suddenly  he  remembered  himself.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  said 
hastily,  "  I  beg  your  pardon.     Thanks,  very  much." 

"  Good-night !  "  Sir  John  and  Lady  Masters  passed 
through  the  glass  doors. 

Burnaby  paused  a  moment  where  he  had  shaken  hands, 
and  then,  with  the  long  stride  characteristic  of  him,  went 
tQ  the  window  and,  drawing  aside  the  curtain,  peered  into 
the  darkness  beyond.  He  stood  listening  until  the  purr 
of  a  great  motor  rose  and  died  on  the  snow-muffled  air. 
"  He's  gone ! "  he  said,  and  turned  back  into  the  room. 
He  spread  his  arms  out  and  dropped  them  to  his  sides. 
"  Swastika!  "  he  said.  "And  God  keep  us  from  the  evil 
eye !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

"  Sir  John,"  said  Burnaby.     "  He  has  *  a  bad  heart.' " 


MAXWfeLL  STRUTHERS  BURT  69 

"  Stop  talking  your  Indian  talk  and  tell  us  what  you 
mean." 

Burnaby  balanced  himself  on  the  hearth.  "  Am  I  to 
understand  you  don't  know  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Well,  Mor- 
ton's Masters,  and  *  the  girl's '  Lady  Masters,  and  Bew- 
sher  —  well,  he's  just  a  squawman." 

"  I  don't  believe  it ! "  said  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  He 
wouldn't  dare." 

"  Wouldn't  dare  ?  "  Burnaby  laughed  shortly.  "  My 
dear  Minna,  he'd  dare  anything  if  it  gave  him  a  sense  of 
power." 

"  But  why  —  why  did  he  choose  us  ?  We're  not  so  im-r 
portant  as  all  that  ?  " 

"  Because  —  well,  Bewsher's  name  came  up.  Because, 
well,  you  heard  what  he  said  —  self -revelation  —  men 
who  had  sweated.  Because  — "  suddenly  Burnaby  took 
a  step  forward  and  his  jaw  shot  out  — "  because  that 
shadow  of  his,  that  wife  of  his,  broke  a  champagne- 
glass  when  I  said  Geoffrey  Boisselier  Bewsher;  broke 
her  champagne-glass  and,  I've  no  doubt,  cried  out  loud 
in  her  heart.  Power  can't  buy  love  —  no ;  but  power  can 
stamp  to  death  anything  that  won't  love  it.  That's  Mas- 
ters. I  can  tell  a  timber- wolf  far  off.  Can  you  see 
him  now  in  his  motor  ?  He'll  have  turned  the  lights  out, 
and  she  —  his  wife  —  will  be  looking  out  of  the  window 
at  the  snow.  All  you  can  see  of  him  would  be  his  nose 
and  his  beard  and  the  glow  of  his  cigar  —  except  his 
smile.  You  could  see  that  when  the  car  passed  a  corner 
lamp,  couldn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  It's  too 
preposterous." 


LONELY  PLACES^ 

•  By  FRANCIS  BUZZELL 

From  The  Pictorial  Review 

SHE  was  not  quite  forty  years  old,  but  so  aged  was  she 
in  appearance  that  another  twenty-five  years  would 
not  find  her  perceptibly  older.  And  to  the  people  of 
Almont  she  was  still  Abbie  Snover,  or  "  that  Snover 
girl."  Age  in  Almont  is  not  reckoned  in  years,  but  by 
marriage,  and  by  children,  and  grandchildren. 

Nearly  all  the  young  men  of  Abbie's  generation  had 
gone  to  the  City,  returning  only  in  after  years,  with  the 
intention  of  staying  a  week  or  two  weeks,  and  leaving  at 
the  end  of  a  day,  or  two  days.     So  Abbie  never  married. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Abbie  to  leave  Almont  be- 
cause all  the  young  men  had  gone  away.  She  had  been 
bom  in  the  big  house  at  the  foot  of  Tillson  Street ;  she 
had  never  lived  anywhere  else;  she  had  never  slept  any- 
where but  in  the  black  walnut  bed  in  the  South  bedroom. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five,  Abbie  inherited  the  big 
house,  and  with  it  hired-man  Chris.  He  was  part  of  her 
inheritance.  Her  memory  of  him,  like  her  memory  of 
the  big  house,  went  back  as  far  as  her  memory  of  herself. 

Every  Winter  evening,  between  seven  and  eight 
o'clock,  Abbie  lighted  the  glass-handled  lamp,  placed  it  on 
the  marble-topped  table  in  the  parlor  window,  and  sat 
down  beside  it.  The  faint  light  of  this  lamp,  gleaming 
through  the  snow-hung,  shelving  evergreens,  was  the 
only  sign  that  the  big  house  was  there,  and  occupied. 
When  the  wind  blew  from  the  West  she  could  occasion- 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Pictorial  Review  Company.  Copyright,  1918, 
by  Francis  Buzzell. 

70 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  71 

ally  hear  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  boys  and  girls 
sliding  down  Giddings's  Hill ;  the  song  of  some  young 
farmer  driving  home.  She  thought  of  the  Spring,  when 
the  snow  would  disappear,  and  the  honeysuckle  would 
flower,  and  the  wrens  would  again  occupy  the  old  tea- 
pots hung  in  the  vines  of  the  dining-room  porch. 

The  things  that  made  the  people  of  Almont  interesting 
to  each  other  and  drew  them  together  meant  nothing  to 
Abbie  Snover.  When  she  had  become  too  old  to  be 
asked  in  marriage  by  any  one,  she  had  stopped  going  to 
dances  and  to  sleigh-rides,  and  no  one  had  asked  her 
why.     Then  she  had  left  the  choir. 

Except  when  she  went  to  do  her  marketing,  Abbie 
was  never  seen  on  the  streets. 

For  fifteen  years  after  Amos  Snover  died,  Abbie  and 
Old  Chris  lived  alone  in  the  big  house.  Every  Saturday 
morning,  as  her  mother  had  done  before  her,  Abbie  went 
to  the  grocery  store,  to  the  butcher  shop,  and  to  "  New- 
berry's." She  always  walked  along  the  East  side  of 
Main  Street,  Old  Chris,  with  the  market-basket,  follow- 
ing about  three  feet  behind  her..  And  every  Saturday 
night  Old  Chris  went  down-town  to  sit  in  the  back  of 
Pot  Lippincott's  store  and  visit  with  Owen  Frazer,  who 
drove  in  from  the  sixty  acres  he  farmed  as  a  "  renter  " 
at  Mile  Corners.  Once  every  week  Abbie  made  a  batch 
of  cookies,  cutting  the  thin-rolled  dough  into  the  shape 
of  leaves  with  an  old  tin  cutter  that  had  been  her 
mother's.  She  stored  the  cookies  in  the  shiny  tin  pail 
that  stood  on  the  shelf  in  the  clothes-press  of  the  down- 
stairs bedroom,  because  that  was  where  her  mother  had 
always  kept  them,  to  be  handy  and  yet  out  of  reach  of 
the  hired  help.  And  when  Jennie  Sanders's  children 
came  to  her  door  on  their  way  home  from  school  she 
gave  them  two  cookies  each,  because  her  mother  had 
always  given  her  two 

Once  every  three  months  "  the  Jersey  girls,"  dressed 
in  black  broadcloth,  with  black,  fluted  ruffles  around  their 
necks,  and  black-flowered  bonnets  covering  their  scanty 


jz  LONELY  PLACES 

hair,  turned  the  comer  at  Chase's  Lane,  walked  three 
blocks  to  the  foot  of  Tilson  Street,  and  rang  Abbie 
Snover's  door-bell. 

As  Old  Chris  grew  older  and  less  able,  Abbie  was  com- 
pelled to  close  off  first  one  room  and  then  another;  but 
Old  Chris  still  occupied  the  back  chamber  near  the  up- 
stairs woodroom,  and  Abbie  still  slept  in  the  South  bed- 
room. 

Early  one  October  afternoon,  Jim  East,  Almont's  ex- 
press agent  and  keeper  of  the  general  store,  drove  his 
hooded  delivery  cart  up  to  the  front  steps  of  the  big 
house.  He  trembled  with  excitement  as  he  climbed 
down  from  the  seat. 

"  Abbie  Snover !  Ab  —  bie ! "  he  called.  "  I  got 
somethin'  for  you !  A  package  all  the  way  from  China ! 
Just  you  come  an'  look ! " 

Jim  East  lifted  the  package  out  of  the  delivery  cart, 
carried  it  up  the  steps,  and  set  it  down  at  Abbie's  feet 

"  Just  you  look,  Abbie !  That  there  crate's  made  of 
little  fishin'  poles,  an'  what's  inside's  all  wrapped  up  in 
Chinee  mats !  " 

Old  Chris  came  around  from  the  back  of  the  house. 
Jim  East  grabbed  his  arm  and  pointed  at  the  bamboo 
crate : 

"  Just  you  put  your  nose  down,  Chris,  an'  smell.  Ain't 
that  foreign?  " 

Abbie  brought  her  scissors.  Carefully  she  removed 
the  red  and  yellow  labels. 

"  There's  American  writin'  on  'em,  too,"  Jim  East 
hastened  to  explain,  "  'cause  otherwise  how'd  I  know 
who  it  was  for,  hey  ?  " 

Abbie  carried  the  labels  into  the  parlor  and  looked  for 
a  safe  place  for  them.  She  saw  the  picture-album  and 
put  them  in  it.  Then  she  hurried  back  to  the  porch. 
Old  Chris  opened  one  end  of  the  crate. 

"  It's  a  plant,"  Jim  East  whispered ;  "  a  Chinee  plant." 

"  It's  a  dwarf  orange-tree,"  Old  Chris  announced. 
"  See,  it  says  so  on  that  there  card." 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  73 

Abbie  carried  the  little  orange-tree  into  the  parlor. 
Wlio  could  have  sent  it  to  her?  There  was  no  one  she 
knew,  away  off  there  in  China ! 

"  You  be  careful  of  that  bamboo  and  the  wrappings," 
she  warned  Old  Chris.  "  I'll  make  something  decorative- 
like  out  of  them." 

Abbie  waited  until  Jim  East  drove  away  in  his  delivery 
cart.  Then  she  sat  down  at  the  table  in  the  parlor  and 
opened  the  album.  She  found  her  name  on  one  of  the 
labels  —  Abbie  Snover,  Almont,  Michigan,  U.  S.  A. 
It  seemed  queer  to  her  that  her  name  had  come  all  the 
way  from  China.  On  the  card  that  said  that  the  plant 
was  a  dwarf  orange-tree  she  found  the  name  —  Thomas 
J.  Thorington.  Thomas?  Tom?  Tom  Thorington! 
Why,  the  last  she  had  heard  of  Tom  had  been  fifteen 
years  back.  He  had  gone  out  West.  She  had  received 
a  picture  of  him  in  a  uniform,  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder. 
She  dimly  recollected  that  he  had  been  a  guard  at  some 
penitentiary.  How  long  ago  it  seemed!  He  must  have 
become  a  missionary  or  something,  to  be  away  off  in 
China.  And  he  had  remembered  her!  She  sat  for  a 
long  time  looking  at  the  labels.  She  wondered  if  the 
queer  Chinese  letters  spelled  Abbie  Snover,  Almont, 
Michigan.  She  opened  the  album  again  and  hunted 
until  she  found  the  picture  of  Tom  Thorington  in  his 
guard's  uniform.  Then  she  placed  the  labels  next  to 
the  picture,  closed  the  album,  and  carefully  fastened  the 
adjustable  clasp. 

Under  Abbie's  constant  attention,  the  little  orange- 
tree  thrived.  A  tiny  green  orange  appeared.  Day  by 
day  she  watched  it  grow,  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  it  would  become  large  and  yellow.  The  days  grew 
shorter  and  colder,  but  she  did  not  mind ;  every  week  the 
orange  grew  larger.  After  the  first  snow,  she  moved 
the  tree  into  the  down-stairs  bedroom.  She  placed  it  on 
a  little  stand  in  the  South  window.  The  inside  blinds, 
which  she  had  always  kept  as  her  mother  liked  them  best 


74  LONELY  PLACES 

—  the  lower  blinds  closed,  the  top  blinds  opened  a  little 
to  let  in  the  morning  light  —  she  now  threw  wide  open 
so  that  the  tree  would  get  all  of  the  sun.  And  she  kept 
a  fire  in  the  small  sheet-iron  stove,  for  fear  that  the  old, 
drafty  wood  furnace  might  not  send  up  a  steady  enough 
heat  through  the  register.  When  the  nights  became  se- 
vere, she  crept  down  the  narrow,  winding  stairs,  and 
through  the  cold,  bare  halls,  to  put  an  extra  chunk  of 
hardwood  into  the  stove.  Every  morning  she  swept  and 
dusted  the  room;  the  ashes  and  wood  dirt  around  the 
stove  gave  her  something  extra  to  do  near  the  orange- 
tree.  She  removed  the  red  and  white  coverlet  from  the 
bed,  and  put  in  its  place  the  fancy  patch-quilt  with  the 
green  birds  and  the  yellow  flowers,  to  make  the  room 
look  brighter. 

"  Abbie  Snover  loves  that  orange-tree  more'n  anything 
in  the  world,"  Old  Chris  cautioned  the  children  when 
they  came  after  cookies,  "  an'  don't  you  dare  touch  it, 
even  with  your  little  finger." 

The  growing  orange  was  as  wonderful  to  the  children 
as  it  was  to  Abbie.  Instead  of  taking  the  cookies  and 
hurrying  home,  they  stood  in  front  of  the  tree,  their 
eyes  round  and  big.  And  one  day,  when  Abbie  went  to 
the  clothes-press  to  get  the  cookie-pail,  Bruce  Sanders 
snipped  the  orange  from  the  tree. 

The  children  were  unnaturally  still  when  Abbie  came 
out  of  the  clothes-press.  They  did  not  rush  forward  to 
get  the  cookies.  Abbie  looked  quickly  at  the  tree ;  the 
pail  of  cookies  dropped  from  her  hands.  She  grabbed 
the  two  children  nearest  and  shook  them  until  their 
heads  bumped  together.  Then  she  drove  them  all  in 
front  of  her  to  the  door  and  down  the  path  to  the  gate, 
which  she  slammed  shut  behind  them. 

Once  outside  the  gate  the  children  ran,  yelling: 
"  Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  na  —  aa  —  ah  !  Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  na  — 
aa  —  ah !  " 

Abbie,  her  hands  trembling,  her  eyes  hot,  went  back 
into  the  house.     That  was  what  came  of  letting  them 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  75 

take  fruit  from  the  trees  and  vines  in  the  yard ;  of  giving 
them  cookies  every  time  they  rang  her  door-bell.  Well, 
there  would  be  no  more  cookies,  and  Old  Chris  should  be 
told  never  to  let  them  come  into  the  yard  again. 

That  evening,  when  the  metallic  hiccough  of  the  well 
pump  on  the  kitchen  porch  told  her  that  Old  Chris  was 
drawing  up  fresh  water  for  the  night,  Abbie  went  out 
into  the  kitchen  to  make  sure  that  he  placed  one  end  of 
the  prop  under  the  knob  of  the  kitchen  door  and  the 
other  end  against  the  leg  of  the  kitchen  table. 

"  It'll  freeze  afore  mornin',"  said  Old  Chris. 

"Yes,"  Abbie  answered. 

But  she  did  not  get  up  in  the  night  to  put  an  extra 
chunk  of  wood  in  the  stove  of  the  down-stairs  bedroom. 

"  Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  na  —  aa  —  ah !  Ab-bie  Sno-ver, 
na  —  aa  —  ah !  " 

Old  Chris  stopped  shoveling  snow  to  shake  his  fist  at 
the  yelling  children. 

"  Your  Mas'U  fix  you,  if  you  don't  stop  that 
screechin' ! " 

And  they  answered :  "  Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  an'  old  Chris ! 
Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  an'  old  Chris ! " 

Every  day  they  yelled  the  two  names  as  they  passed 
the  big  house.  They  yelled  them  on  their  way  to  and 
from  school,  and  on  their  way  to  Giddings's  Hill  to  slide. 
The  older  boys  took  it  up,  and  yelled  it  when  they  saw 
Abbie  and  Old  Chris  on  Main  Street  Saturday  mornings. 
And  finally  they  rimed  it  into  a  couplet, 

"Ab-bie  Sno-ver,  an'  Old  Chris  — 
We  saw  Chris  an'  Ab-bie  kiss ! " 

It  was  too  much.  Abbie  went  to  Hugh  Perry's 
mother. 

Mrs.  Perry  defended  her  young  son.  "  He  couldn't 
have  done  it,"  she  told  Abbie.  "  He  ain't  that  kind  of  a 
boy,  and  you  can  just  tell  that  Old  Chris  I  said  so.     I 


76  LONELY  PLACES 

guess  it  must  be  true,  the  way  you're  fussin'  round !  " 

Mrs.  Perry  slammed  the  door  in  Abbie's  face.  Then 
she  whipped  her  young  son,  and  hated  Abbie  and  Old 
Chris  because  they  were  responsible  for  it. 

"  That  Abbie  Snover  came  to  my  house,"  Mrs.  Perry 
told  Mrs.  Rowles,  "  an'  said  my  Hugh  had  been  a-couplin' 
her  name  with  Old  Chris's  in  a  nastv  way.  An'  I  told 
her  — " 

"  The  idea !  the  idea ! "  Mrs.  Rowles  interrupted. 

"  An'  I  told  her  it  must  be  so,  an'  I  guess  it  is,"  Mrs. 
Perry  concluded. 

Mrs.  Rowles  called  upon  Pastor  Lucus's  wife. 

"  Abbie  Snover  an'  Old  Chris  was  seen  kissin'." 

"  It's  scandalous,"  Mrs.  Lucas  told  the  pastor.  "  The 
town  shouldn't  put  up  with  it  a  minute  longer.  That's 
what  comes  of  Abbie  Snover  not  coming  to  church  since 
her  Ma  died." 

On  Saturday  mornings  when  Abbie  went  down-town 
followed  by  Old  Chris,  the  women  eyed  her  coldly,  and 
the  faces  of  the  men  took  on  quizzical,  humorous  ex- 
pressions. Abbie  could  not  help  but  notice  it ;  she  was 
disturbed.  The  time  for  "  the  Jersey  girls  "  to  call  came 
around.  Every  afternoon  Abbie  sat  in  the  window  and 
watched  for  them  to  turn  the  corner  at  Chase's  Lane. 
She  brought  out  the  polished  apples  which  she  kept  in  the 
clothes-press  all  ready  for  some  one,  but  "  the  Jersey 
girls  "  did  not  come. 

"  You  haven't  heard  of  anybody  being  sick  at  the 
Jersey  house,  have  you,  Chris  ?  " 

"Um?     Nope!" 

"  Haven't  seen  Josie  or  Em  Jersey  anywhere  lately  ? " 

"  Seen  'em  at  the 'post-office  night  afore  last." 

"  H'mp !  " 

Abbie  pushed  the  kettle  to  the  front  of  the  kitchen 
stove,  poked  up  the  fire,  and  put  in  fresh  sticks  of  wood. 
When  the  water  boiled  she  poured  it  into  a  blue-lacquered 
pail  with  yellow  bands  around  the  rim,  carried  it  up  the 
steep  back  stairs,  and  got  but  fresh  stockings. 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  yT 

An  hour  later  Old  Chris  saw  her  climbing  up  lillson 
Street.     He  scratched  his  head  and  frowned. 

Abbie  turned  the  corner  at  Chase's  Lane.  The  snow, 
driven  by  the  wind,  bHnded  her.  She  almost  bumped 
into  Viny  Freeman. 

"  My,  Viny !     What  you  doing  out  on  such  a  day  ?  " 

Viny  Freeman  passed  her  without  answering. 

"  Seems  she  didn't  see  me,"  .A.bbie  muttered.  "  What 
can  she  be  doing  away  down  here  on  such  a  day?  Must 
be  something  special  to  bring  her  out  of  her  lonely  old 
house  with  her  lame  side.  My!  I  almost  bumped  that 
hand  she's  always  holding  up  her  pain  with.     My !  " 

Abbie  turned  into  the  Jersey  gate  and  climbed  the  icy 
steps,  hanging  onto  the  railing  with  both  hands.  She 
saw  Em  Jersey  rise  from  her  chair  in  the  parlor  and  go 
into  the  back  sitting-room.  Abbie  pulled  the  bell-knob 
and  waited.  No  one  answered.  She  pulled  it  again. 
No  answer.  She  rapped  on  the  door  with  her  knuckles. 
Big  Mary,  the  Jersey  hired  girl,  opened  the  door  part 
way, 

"  They  ain't  to  home." 

"  Ain't  to  home  ? "  exclaimed  Abbie.  "  My  land ! 
Didn't  I  just  see  Em  Jersey  through  the  parlor  win- 
dow ?  " 

"  No'm,  you  never  did.     They  ain't  to  home." 

"  Well,  I  never!  And  their  Ma  and  mine  was  cousins! 
They  ain't  sick  or  nothing  ?     Well !  " 

The  snow  melted ;  the  streets  ran  with  water  and  then 
froze.  Old  Chris  no  longer  came  into  the  parlor  in  the 
evening  to  sit,  his  hands  clasped  over  his  thin  stomach, 
his  bald  head  bent  until  his  chin  rested  upon  the  starched 
neckband  of  his  shirt. 

They  ate  in  silence  the  meals  which  Abbie  prepared : 
Old  Chris  at  one  end  of  the  long  table,  and  Abbie  at  the 
other  end. 

In  silence  they  went  about  their  accustomed  tasks. 

Abbie,  tired  with  a  new  weariness,  sat  in  her  chair 


78  LONELY  PLACES 

beside  the  marble-topped  table.  The  village  was  talking 
about  her ;  she  knew  it ;  she  felt  it  all  around  her.  Well, 
let  them  talk ! 

But  one  day  Almont  sent  a  committee  to  her.  It  was 
composed  of  one  man  and  three  women.  Abbie  saw 
them  when  they  turned  in  at  her  gate  —  Pastor  Lucus, 
Lorina  Inman,  Antha  Ewell,  and  Aunt  Alphie  Newberry. 

Abbie  walked  to  the  center  of  the  parlor  and  stood 
there,  her  hands  clenched,  her  face  set.  The  door-bell 
rang;  for  a  moment  her  body  swayed.  Then  she  went 
into  the  bay  window  and  drew  the  blinds  aside.  Antha 
Ewell  saw  her  and  jerked  Pastor  Lucus's  arm.  Pastor 
Lucus  turned  and  caught  sight  of  Abbie;  he  thought  that 
she  had  not  heard  the  bell,  so  he  tapped  the  door  panel 
with  his  fingers  and  nodded  his  head  at  her  invitingly, 
as  if  to  say: 

"  See,  we're  waiting  for  you  to  let  us  in."  Abbie's 
expression  did  not  change.  Pastor  Lucus  tapped  at  the 
door  again,  this  time  hesitantly,  and  still  she  looked  at 
them  with  unseeing  eyes.  He  tapped  a  third  time,  then 
turned  and  looked  at  the  three  women.  Aunt  Alphie 
Newberry  tugged  at  his  arm,  and  the  committee  of  four 
turned  about  without  looking  at  Abbie,  and  walked  down 
the  steps. 

A  few  minutes  later  Abbie  heard  the  door  between 
the  parlor  and  dining-room  open.  Old  Chris  came  in. 
For  a  moment  or  two  neither  spoke.  Old  Chris  fingered 
his  cap. 

"  Abbie,  I  lived  here  forty-two  years.  I  was  here 
when  you  was  born.  I  carried  you  around  in  my  arms 
a  little  bit  of  thing  an'  made  you  laugh." 

Abbie  did  not  turn  away  from  the  window. 

"  I  know  what  they  came  for,"  Old  Chris  continued. 
"Your  Ma  —  your  Ma,  she'd  never  thought  I'd  have  to 
go  away  from  here." 

Abbie  could  not  answer  him. 

"  I  don't  know  who'll  keep  the  furnace  a-goin'  when 
I'm  gone,  nor  fill  the  up-stairs  woodroom." 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  79 

Still  no  answer. 

"  I'm  old  now  —  I'll  go  to  Owen  Frazer's  farm  — 
down  to  Mile  Comers.  He'll  have  some  work  I  can 
do."    ^ 

Old  Chris  stroked  his  baggy  cheeks  with  trembling 
hands.     Abbie  still  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  down  to  the  post-office  now,"  said  Old 
Chris,  as  he  turned  and  went  to  the  door.  "  Be  there 
anything  you  want  ?  " 

Abbie  shook  her  head;  she  could  not  find  words.  As 
Old  Chris  went  down  the  hall  she  heard  him  mumble, 
"  I  don't  know  what  she'll  do  when  I'm  gone." 

That  night  Abbie  sat  in  the  parlor  window  longer 
than  usual.  It  was  a  white  night ;  wet  snow  had  been 
falling  heavily  all  day.  Some  time  between  eight  and 
nine  o'clock  she  arose  from  her  chair  and  went  into  the 
long,  narrow  dining-room.  The  pat-pat  of  her  slippered 
feet  aroused  Old  Chris  from  his  nodding  over  the  Farm 
Herald.  Finding  that  the  hot  air  was  not  coming  up 
strong  through  the  register  over  which  he  sat,  the  old 
m^n  slowly  pushed  his  wool-socked  feet  into  felt-lined 
overshoes  and  tramped  down  into  the  cellar,  picking  up 
the  kitchen  lamp  as  he  went.  Abbie  followed  as  far  as 
the  kitchen.  The  pungent  dry-wood  smell  that  came 
up  the  stairs  when  Old  Chris  swung  open  the  door  of 
the  wood  cellar  made  her  sniff.  She  heard  the  sounds 
as  he  loaded  the  wheelbarrow  with  the  sticks  of  quar- 
tered hardwood;  the  noise  of  the  wheel  bumping  over 
the  loose  boards  as  he  pushed  his  load  into  the  furnace- 
room.  She  went  back  "into  the  parlor  and  stood  over 
the  register.  Hollow  sounds  came  up  through  the  pipe 
as  Old  Chris  leveled  the  ashes  in  the  fire-box  and  threw 
in  the  fresh  sticks. 

When  Old  Chris  came  up  from  the  cellar  and  went  out 
onto  the  porch  to  draw  up  fresh  water  for  the  night, 
Abbie  went  back  into  the  kitchen. 

"  It's  snowin'  hard  out,"  said  Old  Chris. 

"Yes,"  Abbie  answered. 


8o  LONELY  PLACES 

She  led  the  way  back  into  the  dining-room.  Old  Chris 
placed  the  kitchen  lamp  on  the  stand  under  the  fruit 
picture  and  waited.  For  a  few  moments  they  stood  in 
the  blast  of  hot  air  rising  from  the  register.  Then  Abbie 
took  up  the  larger  of  the  two  lamps.  Through  the  bare, 
high-ceilinged  rooms  she  went,  opening  and  closing  the 
heavy  doors;  on  through  the  cold,  empty  hall,  up  the 
stairs,  into  the  South  bedroom.  While  she  was  closing 
the  blinds  she  heard  Old  Chris  stumble  up  the  back  stairs 
and  into  the  chamber  he  had  occupied  ever  since  she 
could  remember. 

The  night  after  Old  Chris  had  gone,  Abbie  took  the 
brass  dinner-bell  from  the  pantry  shelf  and  set  it  on 
the  chair  beside  her  bed.  Over  the  back  of  the  chair 
she  placed  her  heavy,  rabbit-lined  coat ;  it  would  be 
handy  if  any  one  disturbed  her.  Once  or  twice  when 
she  heard  sounds,  she  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the 
bell;  but  the  sounds  did  not  recur.  The  next  night  she 
tried  sleeping  in  the  down-stairs  bedroom.  The  blue- 
and-gray  carpet,  the  blue  fixings  on  the  bureau  and  com- 
mode, the  blue  barids  around  the  wash-bowl  and  pitcher 
—  all  faded  and  old-looking — reminded  her  of  her 
mother  and  father,  and  would  not  let  her  sleep.  On  the 
wall  in  front  of  her  was  a  picture  in  a  black  frame  of  a 
rowboat  filled  with  people.  It  was  called  "  From  Shore 
to  Shore."  Trying  not  to  see  it,  her  eyes  were  caught 
by  a  black-and-white  print  in  a  gilt  frame,  called  "  The 
First  Steps."  How  she  had  loved  the  picture  when  she 
was  a  little  girl ;  her  mother  had  explained  it  to  her 
many  times  —  the  bird  teaching  its  little  ones  to  fly ;  the 
big,  shaggy  dog  encouraging  its  waddling  puppies ;  the 
mother  coaxing  her  baby  to  walk  alone. 

At  midnight  Abbie  got  out  of  bed,  picked  up  the  din- 
ner-bell by  the  clapper,  and  went  back  up-stairs  to  the 
South  bedroom. 

The  tall,  bare  walls  of  the  big  house,  the  high  ceilings 
with  their  centerpieces  of  plaster  fruits  and  flowers,  the 
cold  whiteness,  closed  her  in.     Having  no  one  to  talk 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL                       8i 
to,  she  talked  to  herself :     "  It's  snowin'  hard  out 


why!  that  was  what  Old  Chris  said  the  night  before  he 
went  away."  She  began  to  be  troubled  by  a  queer, 
detached  feeling;  she  knew  that  she  had  mislaid  some- 
thing, but  just  what  she  could  not  remember.  Fore- 
bodings came  to  her,  distressing,  disquieting.  There 
would  never  be  any  one  for  her  to  speak  to  —  never ! 
The  big  house  grew  terrible ;  the  rooms  echoed  her  steps. 
She  would  have  given  everything  for  a  little  house  of 
two  or  three  small,  low-ceilinged  rooms  close  to  the  side- 
walk on  a  street  where  people  passed  up  and  down. 

A  night  came  when  Abbie  forgot  that  Old  Chris  had 
gone  away.  She  had  been  sitting  in  her  chair  beside  the 
marble-topped  table,  staring  out  into  the  night.  All  day 
the  wind  had  blown;  snow  was  piled  high  around  the 
porch.  Her  thoughts  had  got  back  to  her  childhood. 
Somehow  they  had  centered  around  the  old  grandfather 
who,  years  before,  had  sat  in  the  same  window.  She 
saw  him  in  his  chair ;  heard  his  raspy  old  voice,  "  I 
married  Jane  sixty-eight  an'  a  half  years  ago,  an'  a  half 
year  in  a  man's  hfe  ts  something,  I'll  bet  you.  An'  I 
buried  her  thirty  years  ago,  an'  that's  a  long  time,  too. 
We  never  tore  each  other's  shirts.  Jane  wanted  to  live 
a  quiet  life.  She  wanted  one  child,  an'  she  was  tenacious 
'bout  that.  She  never  wanted  any  more,  an'  she  had 
three,  an'  one  of  'em  was  your  Ma,  She  never  wanted 
to  be  seen  out  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  Jane  didn't.  I 
made  her  get  bundled  up  once  or  twice,  an'  I  hitched  up 
the  horse  an'  took  her  ridin'  in  my  phaeton  that  cost  two 
hundred  dollars. —  You'll  be  in  your  dotage  some  day, 
Abbie.  I've  been  in  my  dotage  for  years  now. —  Oh,  I 
altered  my  life  to  fit  Jane's.  I  expected  I  had  a  wife  to 
go  out  and  see  the  neighbors  with.  By  gosh !  we  never 
went  across  the  street  —  I'll  take  on  goodness  some  day, 
Abbie.  By  goll !  that's  all  I'm  good  for  to  take  on 
now. —  Oh,  it  beat  all  what  a  boy  I  was.  I  and  Mother 
broke  our  first  team  of  oxen.  When  you  get  children, 
Abbie,  let  them  raise  themselves  up.     They'll  do  better 


82  LONELY  PLACES 

at  it  than  a  poor  father  or  mother  can.  I  had  the  finest 
horses  and  the  best  phaeton  for  miles  around,  but  you 
never  saw  a  girl  a-ridin'  by  the  side  of  me. —  Some  men 
can't  work  alone,  Abbie.  They  got  to  have  the  women 
around  or  they  quit.  Don't  you  get  that  kind  of  a  man, 
Abbie. —  Oh,  she  was  renowned  was  my  old  mare,  Kit. 
You  never  got  to  the  end  of  her.  She  lived  to  be  more'n 
thirty  year,  an'  she  raised  fourteen  colts.  She  was  a 
darned  good  little  thing  she  was.  I  got  her  for  a  big 
black  mare  that  weighed  fourteen  hundred  pound,  an' 
I  made  'em  give  me  ten  dollars,  too,  an'  I  got  her  colt 
with  her — " 

Abbie  suddenly  realized  that  she  was  shivering;  that 
her  feet  were  cold;  that  it  was  long  after  nine  o'clock. 
Old  Chris  must  have  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair.  She 
went  to  the  dining-room  door  and  opened  it;  the  dining- 
room  was  dark.  Why  ?  —  why,  of  course  !  Old  Chris 
had  been  gone  for  more  than  three  weeks.  She  took 
hold  of  the  door  to  steady  herself ;  her  hands  shook. 
How  could  she  have  forgotten?  Was  she  going  crazy? 
Would  the  loneliness  come  to  that? 

Abbie  went  to  bed.  All  night  she  lay  awake,  thinking. 
The  thoughts  came  of  themselves.  What  the  town  had 
to  say  didn't  matter  after  all ;  the  town  had  paid  her 
no  attention  for  years ;  it  was  paying  her  no  attention 
now.  Why,  then,  should  she  live  without  any  one  to 
speak  to?  "I'll  go  and  get  Old  Chris,  that's  what  I'll 
do.  I  won't  live  here  alone  any  longer."  And  with 
this  decision  she  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning  when  Abbie  opened  the  kitchen  door 
and  stepped  out  onto  the  porch,  frost  lay  thick  upon  the 
well  pump. 

She  drew  her  shawl  close  around  her  and  took  hold 
of  the  pump-handle  with  her  mittened  hands.  When  she 
had  filled  the  pail  she  went  back  into  the  kitchen.  The 
sound  of  the  wind  made  her  shiver.  To  walk  all  the 
way  to  Mile  Corners  on  such  a  day  required  green  tea, 
so   Abbie   drank   three   cupfuls.     Then,   as   on   the   day 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  83 

when  she  went  out  to  call  upon  "  the  Jersey  girls,"  she 
carried  hot  water  up-stairs  and  got  out  fresh  stockings. 

About  nine  o'clock  three  women  of  Pastor  Lucus's 
church,  standing  on  the  front  steps  of  Aunt  Alphie  New- 
berry's house,  saw  Abbie  struggling  through  a  drift. 

"  Why,  there's  Abbie  Snover,"  said  Jennie  Chipman. 

"  She's  turnin'  down  the  road  to  Mile  Corners,"  added 
Judie  Wing. 

Aunt  Alphie  Newberry  opened  the  door  to  the  three 
women : 

"  Whatever's  the  matter  to  be  bringin'  you  callin'  so 
early?" 

"  Ain't  you  heard  yet  ?  " 

"  We  come  to  tell  you." 

"  My !  my !  my !  What  can  have  happened  ?  "  Aunt 
Alphie  exclaimed. 

"  Old  Chris  died  last  night  — " 

"  Just  after  bein'  middlin'  sick  for  a  day  an' — " 

"  An'  they  say,"  Judie  Wing  interrupted,  "  that  it  was 
'cause  Abbie  Snover  turned  him  out  " 

Abbie  reached  the  end  of  the  town  sidewalk.  Lifting 
her  skirts  high,  she  waded  through  the  deep  snow  to  the 
rough-rutted  track  left  by  the  farmers'  sleighs.  Every 
little  while  she  had  to  step  off  the  road  into  the  deep 
snow  to  let  a  bob-sled  loaded  high  with  hay  or  straw 
pass  on  its  way  into  town.  Some  of  the  farmers  recog- 
nized her;  they  spoke  to  her  with  kindly  voices,  but  she 
made  no  answer.  Walking  was  hard :  Owen  Frazer's 
farm  was  over  the  hill ;  there  was  a  steep  climb  ahead 
of  her.  And  besides,  Owen  Frazer's  house  was  no  place 
for  Old  Chris.  No  one  knew  anything  about  Owen 
Frazer  and  that  woman  of  his ;  they  hadn't  been  born  in 
Almont.  How  could  she  have  let  Old  Chris  go  down 
there,  anyway? 

"Whoa  up!  Hey!  Better  climb  in,  Abbie,  an'  ride 
with  me.  This  ain't  no  day  for  walkin'.  Get  up  here  on 
the  seat.     I'll  come  down  an'  help  you." 


§4  LONELY  PLACES 

Abbie  looked  up  at  Undertaker  Hopkins.  In  the  box 
of  his  funeral  wagon  was  a  black  coffin  with  a  sprinkling 
of  snow  on  its  top.  Abbie  shook  her  head,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"  Guess  I  shouldn't  have  asked  you,"  Undertaker  Hop- 
kins apologized.  "  Sorry !  Get  along  as  fast  as  you  can, 
Abbie.  It's  gettin'  mighty,  all-fired  cold.  It'll  be  a  little 
sheltered  when  you  get  over  the  hill." 

Undertaker  Hopkins  drove  on.  Abbie  tried  to  keep 
her  feet  in  the  fresh  track  made  by  the  runners.  She 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  Owen  Frazer's  red  barn 
stood  up  above  the  snow.  Undertaker  Hopkins  and  his 
funeral  wagon  had  disappeared. 

"  He  must  have  turned  down  the  Mill  Road,"  Abbie 
muttered. 

She  reached  the  gate  in  front  of  the  low,  one-story 
farmhouse.  A  shepherd  dog  barked  as  she  went  up  the 
path.  She  rapped  at  the  front  door.  A  woman  ap- 
peared at  the  window  and  pointed  to  the  side  of  the 
house.  Abbie's  face  expressed  surprise  and  resentment. 
She  backed  down  the  steps  and  made  her  way  to  the 
back  door.  The  woman,  Owen  Frazer's  wife,  let  her 
into  the  kitchen. 

"Owen!     Here  be  Abbie  Snover!" 

Owen  Frazer  came  in  from  the  front  of  the  house. 

"  Good  day !  Didn't  expect  you  here.  Pretty  cold 
out,  ain't  it?     Have  a  chair." 

Abbie  did  not  realize  how  numb  the  cold  had  made 
her  body  until  she  tried  to  sit  down. 

"  Maggie,  give  her  a  cup  of  that  hot  tea,"  Owen  Frazer 
continued.  "  She's  been  almost  froze,  an'  I  guess  she'll 
have  a  cup  of  tea.     Hey!  Miss  Snover?" 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  Old  Chris." 

"Talk  to  Old  Chris!  Talk  to  Old  Chris,  you  want 
to?" 

Owen  Frazer  looked  at  his  wife.  Abbie  Snover  didn't 
know,  yet  she  had  walked  all  the  way  to  Mile  Corners 
in  the  cold.     He  couldn't  understand  it. 


FRANCIS  BUZZELL  85 

"  What'd  you  come  for,  anyhow,  Abbie  Snover  ?  " 

"  Now,  Owen,  you  wait ! "  Owen  Frazer's.  wife 
turned  to  Abbie: 

"  Got  lonesome,  did  you,  all  by  yourself  in  that  big 
barn  of  a  house  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  Old  Chris,"  Abbie  repeated. 

"  Was  you  so  fond  of  him,  then?  " 

Abbie  made  no  answer.  Owen  Frazer  went  over  to 
the  sink  and  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  bed-tick 
smoldering  on  the  rubbish  heap.  Owen  Frazer's  wife 
pushed  open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  then  stood 
back  and  turned  to  Abbie: 

"  You  may  be  fine  old  family,  Abbie  Snover,  but  we're 
better.  You  turned  Old  Chris  out,  an'  now  you  want 
to  talk  to  him.  All  right,  talk  to  him  if  you  want  to. 
He's  in  the  parlor.  Go  on  in  now.  Talk  to  him  if  you 
want  to  —  go  on  in !  " 

The  animosity  in  Mrs.  Frazer's  voice  shook  Abbie; 
she  was  disturbed ;  doubt  came  to  her  for  the  first  time. 
As. she  went  through  the  sitting-room,  fear  slowed  her 
steps.  Perhaps  they  had  turned  Old  Chris  away  from 
her  and  she  would  have  to  go  back  alone,  to  live  alone, 
for  all  the  remaining  years  of  her  life,  in  that  big  house. 


BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS ' 

By  IRVIN  S.  COBB 

From  The  Saturday  Evening  Fast 

WHEN  Judge  Priest,  on  this  particular  morning,  came 
puffing  into  his  chambers  at  the  courthouse,  look- 
ing, with  his  broad  beam  and  in  his  costume  of  flappy, 
loose  white  ducks,  a  good  deal  like  an  old-fashioned  full- 
rigger  with  all  sails  set,  his  black  shadow,  Jefif  Poindex- 
ter,  had  already  finished  the  job  of  putting  the  charters 
to  rights  for  the  day.  The  cedar  water  bucket  had  been 
properly  replenished ;  the  jagged  flange  of  a  fifteen-cent 
chunk  of  ice  protruded  above  the  rim  of  the  bucket;  and 
alongside,  on  the  appointed  nail,  hung  the  gourd  dipper 
that  the  master  always  used.  The  floor  had  been  swept, 
except,  of  course,  in  the  corners  and  underneath  things; 
there  were  evidences,  in  streaky  scrolls  of  fine  grit  parti- 
cles upon  various  flat  surfaces,  that  a  dusting  brush  had 
been  more  or  less  sparingly  employed.  A  spray  of  trum- 
pet flowers,  plucked  from  the  vine  that  grew  outside  the 
window,  had  been  draped  over  the  framed  steel  engrav- 
ing of  President  Davis  and  his  Cabinet  upon  the  wall ; 
and  on  the  top  of  the  big  square  desk  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  where  a  small  section  of  cleared  green-blotter 
space  formed  an  oasis  in  a  dry  and  arid  desert  of  clut- 
tered law  journals  and  dusty  documents,  the  morning's 
mail  rested  in  a  little  heap. 

Having  placed  his  old  cotton  umbrella  in  a  corner,  hav- 
ing removed  his  coat  and  hung  it  upon  a  peg  behind  the 
hall  door,  and  having  seen  to  it  that  a  palm-leaf  fan  was 

1  Copyright,   1917,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company.     Copyright,    191 8, 
by  Irvin   S.   Cobb. 

86 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  87 

in  arm's  reach  should  he  require  it,  the  Judge,  in  his 
billowy  white  shirt,  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  gave  his 
attention  to  his  letters.  There  was  an  invitation  from 
the  Hylan  B.  Gracey  Camp  of  Confederate  Veterans  of 
Eddyburg,  asking  him  to  deliver  the  chief  oration  at  the 
annual  reunion,  to  be  held  at  Mineral  Springs  on  the 
twelfth  day  of  the  following  month ;  an  official  notice 
from  the  clerk  of  the  Court  of  Appeals  concerning  the 
affirmation  of  a  judgment  that  had  been  handed  down 
by  Judge  Priest  at  the  preceding  term  of  his  own  court ; 
a  bill  for  five  pounds  of  a  special  brand  of  smoking  to- 
bacco;  a  notice  of  a  lodge  meeting  —  altogether  quite  a 
sizable  batch  of  mail. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  pile  he  came  upon  a  long  envelope 
addressed  to  him  by  his  title,  instead  of  by  his  name,  and 
bearing  on  its  upper  right-hand  corner  several  foreign- 
looking  stamps ;  they  were  British  stamps,  he  saw,  on 
closer  examination. 

To  the  best  of  his  recollection  it  had  been  a  good  long 
time  since  Judge  Priest  had  had  a  communication  by  post 
from  overseas.  He  adjusted  his  steel-bowed  spectacles, 
ripped  the  wrapper  with  care  and  shook  out  the  contents. 
There  appeared  to  be  several  inclosures ;  in  fact,  there 
were  several  —  a  sheaf  of  printed  forms,  a  document  with 
seals  attached,  and  a  letter  that  covered  two  sheets  of 
paper  with  typewritten  lines.  To  the  letter  the  recipient 
gave  consideration  first.  Before  he  reached  the  end  of 
the  opening  paragraph  he  uttered  a  profound  grunt  of 
surprise ;  his  reading  of  the  rest  was  frequently  punctu- 
ated by  small  exclamations,  his  face  meantime  puckering 
up  in  interested  lines.  At  the  conclusion,  when  he  came 
to  the  signature,  he  indulged  himself  in  a  soft  low  whistle. 
He  read  the  letter  all  through  again,  and  after  that  he 
examined  the  forms  and  the  document  which  had  accom- 
panied it. 

Chuckling  under  his  breath,  he  wriggled  himself  free 
from  the  snug  embrace  of  his  chair  arms  and  waddled  out 
of  his  own  office  and  down  the  long  bare  empty  hall  to  the 


88  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

office  of  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong.  Within,  that  competent 
functionary,  Deputy  Sheriff  Breck  Quarles,  sat  at  ease  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  engaged,  with  the  smaller  blade  of  his 
pocketknife,  in  performing  upon  his  finger  nails  an  opera- 
tion that  combined  the  fine  deftness  of  the  manicure  with 
the  less  delicate  art  of  the  farrier.  At  the  sight  of  the 
Judge  in  the  open  doorway  he  hastily  withdrew  from  a 
tabletop,  where  they  rested,  a  pairof  long  thin  legs,  and 
rose. 

"  Mornin',  Breck,"  said  Judge  Priest  to  the  other's  salu- 
tation. "  No,  thank  you,  son.  I  won't  come  in  ;  but  I've 
got  a  little  job  for  you.  I  wisht,  ef  you  ain't  too  busy, 
that  you'd  step  down  the  street  and  see  ef  you  can't  find 
Peep  O'Day  fur  me  and  fetch  him  back  here  with  you. 
It  won't  take  you  long,  will  it  ?  " 

"No,  suh  —  not  very."  Mr.  Quarles  reached  for  his 
hat  and  snuggled  his  shoulder  holster  back  inside  his  un- 
buttoned waistcoat.  "  He'll  most  likely  be  down  round 
Gafford's  stable.  Whut's  Old  Peep  been  doin'.  Judge  — 
gettin'  himself  in  contempt  of  court  or  somethin'?  "  He 
grinned,  asking  the  question  with  the  air  of  one  making 
a  little  joke. 

"  No,"  vouchsafed  the  Judge ;  "  he  ain't  done  nothin'. 
But  he's  about  to  have  somethin'  of  a  highly  onusual  na- 
ture done  to  him.  You  jest  tell  him  I'm  wishful  to  see 
him  right  away  —  that'll  be  sufficient,  I  reckin." 

Without  making  further  explanation,  Judge  Priest  re- 
turned to  his  chambers  and  for  the  third  time  read  the 
letter  from  foreign  parts.  Court  was  not  in  session,  and 
the  hour  was  early  and  the  weather  was  hot ;  nobody  in- 
terrupted him.  Perhaps  fifteen  minutes  passed.  Mr. 
Quarles  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"  I  found  him,  suh,"  the  deputy  stated.  "'  He's  outside 
here  in  the  hall." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "  Send 
him  on  in,  will  you,  please?  " 

The  head  was  withdrawn :  its  owner  lingered  out  of 
sight  of  His  Honor,  but  within  earshot.     It  was  hard  to 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  89 

figure  the  presiding  judge  of  the  First  Judicial  District 
of  the  State  of  Kentucky  as  having  business  with  Peep 
O'Day;  and,  though  Mr.  Quarles  was  no  eavesdropper, 
still  he  felt  a  pardonable  curiosity  in  whatsoever  might 
transpire.  As  he  feigned  an  absorbed  interest  in  a  tax 
notice,  which  was  pasted  on  a  blackboard  just  outside  the 
office  door,  there  entered  the  presence  of  the  Judge  a  man 
who  seemingly  was  but  a  few  years  younger  than  the 
Judge  himself  —  a  man  who  looked  to  be  somewhere  be- 
tween sixty-five  and  seventy.  There  is  a  look  that  you 
may  have  seen  in  the  eyes  of  ownerless  but  well-inten- 
tioned dogs  —  dogs  that,  expecting  kicks  as  their  daily 
portion,  are  humbly  grateful  for  kind  words  and  stray 
bones ;  dogs  that  are  fairly  yearning  to  be  adopted  by 
somebody  —  by  anybody  —  being  prepared  to  give  to  such 
a  benefactor  a  most  faithful  doglike  devotion  in  return. 

This  look,  which  is  fairly  common  among  masterless 
and  homeless  dogs,  is  rare  among  humans;  still,  once  in 
a  while  you  do  find  it  there  too.  The  man  who  now 
timidly  shuffled  himself  across  the  threshold  of  Judge 
Priest's  office  had  such  a  look  out  of  his  eyes.  He  had  a 
long  simple  face,  partly  inclosed  in  gray  whiskers.  Four 
dollars  would  have  been  a  sufficient  price  to  pay  for  the 
garments  he  stood  in,  including  the  wrecked  hat  he  held 
in  his  hands  and  the  broken,  misshaped  shoes  on  his  feet. 
A  purchaser  who  gave  more  than  four  dollars  for  the 
whole  in  its  present  state  of  decrepitude  would  have  been 
but  a  poor  hand  at  bargaining. 

The  man  who  wore  this  outfit  coughed  in  an  embar- 
rassed fashion  and  halted,  fumbling  his  ruinous  hat  in  his 
hands. 

"Howdy  do?"  said  Judge  Priest  heartily.  "Come 
in!" 

The  other  diffidently  advanced  himself  a  yard  or  two. 

"  Excuse  me,  suh,"  he  said  apologetically ;  "  but  this 
here  Breck  Quarles  he  come  after  me  and  he  said  ez  how 
you  wanted  to  see  me.  'Twas  him  ez  brung  me  here, 
suh." 


90  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

Faintly  underlying  the  drawl  of  the  speaker  was  just  a 
suspicion  —  a  mere  trace,  as  you  might  say  —  of  a  labial 
softness  that  belongs  solely  and  exclusively  to  the  children, 
and  in  a  diminishing  degree  to  the  grandchildren,  of  na- 
tive-born sons  and  daughters  of  a  certain  small  green 
isle  in  the  sea.  It  was  not  so  much  a  suggestion  of  a 
brogue  as  it  was  the  suggestion  of  the  ghost  of  a  brogue; 
a  brogue  almost  extinguished,  almost  obliterated,  and 
yet  persisting  through  the  generations  —  South  of  Ireland 
struggling  beneath  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  Line. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Judge ;  "  that's  right.  I  do  want  to 
see  you."  The  tone  was  one  that  he  might  employ  in 
addressing  a  bashful  child.  "  Set  down  there  and  make 
yourself  at  home." 

The  newcomer  obeyed  to  the  extent  of  perching  himself 
on  the  extreme  forward  edge  of  a  chair.  His  feet  shuf- 
fled uneasily  where  they  were  drawn  up  against  the  cross 
rung  of  the  chair. 

The  Judge  reared  well  back,  studying  his  visitor  over 
the  tops  of  his  glasses  with  rather  a  quizzical  look.  In 
one  hand  he  balanced  the  large  envelope  which  had  come 
to  him  that  morning. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  beared  somewheres,  years  back,  that 
your  regular  Christian  name  was  Paul  —  is  that  right  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Shorely  is,  suh,"  assented  the  ragged  man,  surprised 
and  plainly  grateful  that  one  holding  a  supremely  high 
position  in  the  community  should  vouchsafe  to  remember 
a  fact  relating  to  so  inconsequent  an  atom  as  himself. 
"  But  I  ain't  beared  it  fur  so  long  I  come  mighty  nigh  fur- 
gittin'  it  sometimes,  myself.  You  see,  Judge  Priest,  when 
I  wasn't  nothin'  but  jest  a  shaver  folks  started  in  to 
callin'  me  Peep  —  on  account  of  my  last  name  bein' 
O'Day,  I  reckin.  They  been  callin'  me  so  ever  since. 
Fust  off,  'twas  Little  Peep,  and  then  jest  plain  Peep; 
and  now  it's  got  to  be  Old  Peep.  But  my  real  entitled 
name  is  Paul,  jest  like  you  said.  Judge  —  Paul  Felix 
O'Day." 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  91 

"  Uh-huh !  And  wasn't  your  father's  name  Philip  and 
your  mother's  name  Katherine  Dwyer  O'Day  ?  " 

"  To  the  best  of  my  recollection  that's  partly  so,  too, 
suh.  They  both  of  'em  up  and  died  when  I  was  a  baby, 
long  before  I  could  remember  anything  a-tall.  But  they 
always  told  me  my  paw's  name  was  Phil,  or  Philip.  Only 
my  maw's  name  wasn't  Kath  —  Kath  —  wasn't  whut  you 
jest  now  called  it.  Judge.     It  was  plain  Kate." 

"  Kate  or  Katherine  —  it  makes  no  great  difference," 
explained  Judge  Priest.  "  I  reckin  the  record  is  straight 
this  fur.  And  now  think  hard  and  see  ef  you  kin  ever 
remember  hearin'  of  an  uncle  named  Daniel  O'Day  — 
your  father's  brother." 

The  answer  was  a  shake  of  the  tousled  head. 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  my  people.  J  only  jest 
know  they  come  over  f rum  some  place  with  a  funny  name 
in  the  Old  Country  before  I  was  born.  The  onliest  kin  I 
ever  had  over  here  was  that  there  no-'count  triflin'  nephew 
of  mine  —  Perce  Dwyer  —  him  that  uster  hang  round 
this  town.     I  reckin  you  call  him  to  mind.  Judge  ?  " 

The  old  Judge  nodded  before  continuing: 

"  All  the  same,  I  reckin  there  ain't  no  manner  of  doubt 
but  whut  you  had  an  uncle  of  the  name  of  Daniel.  All 
the  evidences  would  seem  to  p'int  that  way.  Accordin'  to 
the  proofs,  this  here  Uncle  Daniel  of  yours  lived  in  a  little 
town  called  Kilmare,  in  Ireland."  He  glanced  at  one  of 
the  papers  that  lay  on  his  desktop ;  then  added  in  a  casual 
tone :  "  Tell  me.  Peep,  whut  are  you  doin'  now  fur  a 
livin'?" 

The  object  of  this  examination  grinned  a  iaint  grin  of 
extenuation. 

"  Well,  suh,  I'm  knockin'  about,  doin'  the  best  I  kin  — 
which  ain't  much.  I  help  out  round  Gafford's  liver' 
stable,  and  Pete  Gafford  he  lets  me  sleep  in  a  little  room 
behind  the  feed  room,  and  his  wife  she  gives  me  my 
vittles.  Oncet  in  a  while  I  git  a  chancet  to  do  odd  jobs 
fur  folks  round  town  —  cuttin'  weeds  and  splittin'  stove 
wood  and  packin'  in  coal,  and  sech  ez  that." 


92  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

"  Not  much  money  in  it,  is  there  ?  " 

"  No,  suh ;  not  much.  Folks  is  more  prone  to  offer  me 
old  clothes  than  they  are  to  pay  me  in  cash.  Still,  I  man- 
age to  git  along.  I  don't  live  very  fancy ;  but,  then,  I 
don't  starve,  and  that's  more'n  some  kin  say." 

"  Peep,  whut  w^as  the  most  money  you  ever  had  in 
your  life  —  at  one  time  ?  " 

Peep  scratched  with  a  freckled  hand  at  his  thatch  of 
faded  whitish  hair  to  stimulate  recollection. 

*'  I  reckin  not  more'n  six  bits  at  any  one  time,  suh. 
Seems  like  I've  sorter  got  the  knack  of  livin'  without 
money." 

"  Well,  Peep,  sech  bein'  the  case,  whut  would  you  say 
ef  I  was  to  tell  you  that  you're  a  rich  man  ?  " 

The  answer  came  slowly : 

"  I  reckin,  suh,  ef  it  didn't  sound  disrespectful,  I'd  say 
you  was  prankin'  with  me  —  makin'  fun  of  me,  suh." 

Judge  Priest  bent  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  I'm  not  prankin'  with  you.  It's  my  pleasant  duty  to 
inform  you  that  at  this  moment  you  are  the  rightful 
owner  of  eight  thousand  pounds." 

"  Pounds  of  whut,  Judge  ? "  The  tone  expressed  a 
heavy  incredulity. 

"  Why,  pounds  in  money." 

Outside,  in  the  hall,  with  one  ear  held  conveniently 
near  the  crack  in  the  door.  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles  gave 
a  violent  start ;  and  then,  at  once,  was  torn  between  a 
desire  to  stay  and  hear  more  and  an  urge  to  hurry  forth 
and  spread  the  unbelievable  tidings.  After  the  briefest 
of  struggles  the  latter  inclination  won ;  this  news  was  too 
marvelously  good  to  keep ;  surely  a  harbinger  and  a  herald 
were  needed  to  spread  it  broadcast. 

Mr.  Quarles  tiptoed  rapidly  down  the  hall.  When  he 
reached  the  sidewalk  the  volunteer  bearer  of  a  miraculous 
tale  fairly  ran.  As  for  the  man  who  sat  facing  the  Judge, 
he  merely  stared  in  a  dull  bewilderment. 

"  Judge,"  he  said  at  length,  "  eight  thousand  pounds  of 
money  oughter  make  a  powerful  big  pile,  oughten  it  ?  " 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  93 

"  It  wouldn't  weigh  quite  that  much  ef  you  put  it  on 
the  scales,"  explained  His  Honor  painstakingly.  "  I 
mean  pounds  sterlin' —  English  money.  Near  ez  T  kin 
figger  offhand,  it  comes  in  our  money  to  somewheres  be- 
tween thirty-five  and  forty  thousand  dollars  —  nearer 
forty  than  thirty-five.  And  it's  yours,  Peep  —  every  red 
cent  of  it." 

"  Excuse  me,  suh,  and  not  meanin'  to  contradict  you, 
or  nothin'  like  that ;  but  I  reckin  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take. Why,  Judge,  I  don't  scursely  know  anybody  that's 
ez  wealthy  ez  all  that,  let  alone  anybody  that'd  give  me 
sech  a  lot  of  money." 

"  Listen,  Peep :  This  here  letter  I'm  holdin'  in  my 
hand  came  to  me  by  to-day's  mail  —  jest  a  little  spell 
ago.  It's  f rum  Ireland  —  f rum  the  town  of  Kilmare, 
where  your  people  came  frum.  It  was  sent  to  me  by  a 
firm  of  barristers  in  that  town  —  lawyers  we'd  call  'em. 
In  this  letter  they  ask  me  to  find  you  and  to  tell  you 
what's  happened.  It  seems,  from  whut  they  write,  that 
your  uncle,  by  name  Daniel  O'Day,  died  not  very  long 
ago  without  issue  —  that  is  to  say,  without  leavin'  any 
children  of  his  own,  and  without  makin'  any  will. 

"  It  appears  he  had  eight  thousand  pounds  saved  up. 
Ever  since  he  died  those  lawyers  and  some  other  folks 
over  there  in  Ireland  have  been  tryin'  to  find  out  who 
that  money  should  go  to.  They  learnt  in  some  way  that 
your  father  and  your  mother  settled  in  this  town  a  mighty 
long  time  ago,  and  that  they  died  here  and  left  one  son, 
which  is  you.  All  the  rest  of  the  family  over  there  in 
Ireland  have  already  died  out,  it  seems;  that  natchelly 
makes  you  the  next  of  kin  and  the  heir  at  law,  which 
means  that  all  your  uncle's  money  comes  direct  to  you. 

"  So,  Peep,  you're  a  wealthy  man  in  your  own  name. 
That's  the  news  I  had  to  tell  you.  Allow  me  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  good  fortune." 

The  beneficiary  rose  to  his  feet,  seeming  not  to  see  the 
hand  the  old  Judge  had  extended  across  the  desktop 
toward  him.     On  his  face,  of  a  sudden,  was  a  queer, 


94  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

eager  look.     It  was  as  though  he  foresaw  the  coming 
true  of  long-cherished  and  heretofore  unattainable  visions. 

"  Have  you  got  it  here,  suh  ?  " 

He  glanced  about  him  as  though  expecting  to  see  a 
bulky  bundle.     Judge  Priest  smiled. 

"  Oh,  no ;  they  didn't  send  it  along  with  the  letter  — 
that  wouldn't  be  regular.  There's  quite  a  lot  of  things  to 
be  done  fust.  There'll  be  some  proofs  to  be  got  up  and 
sworn  to  before  a  man  called  a  British  consul ;  and  likely 
there'll  be  a  lot  of  papers  that  you'll  have  to  sign ;  and 
then  all  the  papers  and  the  proofs  and  things  will  be  sent 
across  the  ocean.  And,  after  some  fees  are  paid  out 
over  there  —  why,  then  you'll  git  your  inheritance." 

The  rapt  look  faded  from  the  strained  face,  leaving  it 
downcast.  "  I'm  afeared,  then,  I  won't  be  able  to  claim 
that  there  money,"  he  said  forlornly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  know  how  to  sign  my  own  name. 
Raised  the  way  I  was,  I  never  got  no  book  learnin'.  I 
can't  neither  read  nor  write." 

Compassion  shadowed  the  Judge's  chubby  face ;  and 
compassion  was  in  his  voice  as  he  made  answer: 

"  You  don't  need  to  worry  about  that  part  of  it.  You 
can  make  your  mark  —  just  a  cross  mark  on  the  paper, 
with  witnesses  present  —  like  this." 

He  took  up  a  pen,  dipped  it  in  the  inkwell  and  illus- 
trated his  meaning. 

"  Yes,  suh  ;  I'm  glad  it  kin  be  done  thataway.  I  always 
wisht  I  knowed  how  to  read  big  print  and  spell  my  own 
name  out.  I  ast  a  feller  oncet  to  write  my  name  out 
fur  me  in  plain  letters  on  a  piece  of  paper.  I  was  aimin' 
to  learn  to  copy  it  off ;  but  I  showed  it  to  one  of  the  hands 
at  the  liver'  stable  and  he  busted  out  laughin'.  And  then 
I  come  to  find  out  this  here  feller  had  tricked  me  fur  to 
make  game  of  me.  He  hadn't  wrote  my  name  out  a-tall 
—  he'd  wrote  some  dirty  words  instid.  So  after  that  I 
give  up  tryin'  to  educate  myself.  That  was  several  years 
back  and  I  ain't  tried  sence.     Now  I  reckin  I'm  too  old 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  95' 

to  learn.  ...  I  wonder,  suh  —  I  wonder  ef  it'll  be  very 
long  before  that  there  money  gits  here  and  I  begin  to 
have  the  spendin'  of  it?  " 

"  Makin'  plans  already?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,"  O'Day  answered  truthfully ;  "  I  am."  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  on  the  floor ;  then  tim- 
idly he  advanced  the  thought  that  had  come  to  him.  "  I 
reckin,  suh,  it  wouldn't  be  no  more'n  fair  and  proper  ef 
I  divided  my  money  with  you  to  pay  you  back  fur  all 
this  trouble  you're  fixin'  to  take  on  my  account.  Would 
—  would  half  of  it  be  enough?  The  other  half  oughter 
last  me  fur  what  uses  I'll  make  of  it." 

"  I  know  you  mean  well  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you 
fur  your  offer,"  stated  Judge  Priest,  smiling  a  little ;  "  bijt 
it  wouldn't  be  fittin'  or  proper  fur  me  to  tech  a  cent  of 
your  money.  There'll  be  some  court  dues  and  some 
lawyers'  fees,  and  sech,  to  pay  over  there  in  Ireland ; 
but  after  that's  settled  up  everything  comes  direct  to  you. 
It's  goin'  to  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  help  you  arrange  these 
here  details  that  you  don't  understand  —  a  pleasure  and 
not  a  burden." 

He  considered  the  figure  before  him. 

"  Now  here's  another  thing,  Peep ;  I  judge  it's  hardly 
fittin'  fur  a  man  of  substance  to  go  on  livin'  the  way 
you've  had  to  live  durin'  your  life.  Ef  you  don't  mind 
my  offerin'  you  a  little  advice  I  would  suggest  that  you 
go  right  down  to  Felsburg  Brothers  when  you  leave  here 
and  git  yourself  fitted  out  with  some  suital)le  clothin'. 
And  you'd  better  go  to  Max  Biederman's,  too,  and  order 
a  better  pair  of  shoes  fur  yourself  than  them  you've  got 
on.  Tell  'em  I  sent  you  and  that  I  guarantee  the  pay- 
ment of  your  bills.  Though  I  reckin  that'll  hardly  be 
necessary  —  when  the  news  of  your  good  luck  gits  noised 
round  I  misdoubt  whether  there's  any  firm  in  our  entire 
city  tliat  wouldn't  be  glad  to  have  you  on  their  books  fur 
a  stiddy  customer. 

"  And,  also,  ef  I  was  you  I'd  arrange  to  git  me  regular 
board  and  lodgin's  somewheres  round  town.     You  see. 


96  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

Peep,  comin'  into  a  property  entails  consider'ble  many 
responsibilities  right  frum  the  start." 

"  Yes,  suh,"  assented  the  legatee  obediently.  *'  I'll  do 
jest  ez  you  say,  Judge  Priest,  about  the  clothes  and  the 
shoes,  and  all  that ;  but  —  but,  ef  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like 
to  go  on  livin'  at  Gafford's.  Pete  Gafford's  been  mighty 
good  to  me  —  him  and  his  wife  both ;  and  I  wouldn't  like 
fur  'em  to  think  I  was  gittin'  stuck  up  jest  because  I've 
had  this  here  streak  of  luck  come  to  me.  Mebbe.  seein' 
ez  how  things  has  changed  with  me,  they'd  be  willin'  to 
take  me  in  fur  a  table  boarder  at  their  house ;  but  I 
shorely  would  hate  to  give  up  livin'  in  that  there  little 
room  behind  the  feed  room  at  the  liver'  stable.  I  don't 
know  ez  I  could  ever  find  any  place  that  would  seem  ez 
homelike  to  me  ez  whut  it  is." 

"  Suit  yourself  about  that,"  said  Judge  Priest  heartily. 
"  I  don't  know  but  whut  you've  got  the  proper  notion 
about  it  after  all." 

"  Yes,  suh.  Them  Gaflfords  have  been  purty  nigh  the 
only  real  true  friends  I  ever  had  that  I  could  count  on." 
He  hesitated  a  moment.  ''  I  reckin  —  I  reckin,  suh,  it'll 
be  a  right  smart  while,  won't  it,  before  that  money  gits 
here  frum  all  the  way  acrost  the  ocean  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  imagine  it  will.  Was  you  figurin'  on 
investin'  a  little  of  it  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  suh ;  I  was." 

"  About  how  much  did  you  think  of  spendin'  fur  a 
beginnin'  ?  " 

O'Day  squinted  his  eyes,  his  lips  moving  in  silent  cal- 
culation. 

"Well,  suh,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  could  use  ez  much 
ez  a  silver  dollar.     But,  of  course,  sence  — " 

"  That  sounds  kind  of  moderate  to  me,"  broke  in  Judge 
Priest.  He  shoved  a  pudgy  hand  into  a  pocket  of  his 
white  trousers.  "  I  reckin  this  detail  kin  be  arranged. 
Here,  Peep  " —  he  extended  his  hand  — "  here's  your  dol- 
lar." Then,  as  the  other  drew  back,  stammering  a  re- 
fusal, he  hastily  added :     "  No,  no,  no ;  go  ahead  and 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  97 

take  it  —  it's  yours.  I'm  jest  advancin'  it  to  you  out  of 
whut'll  be  comin'  to  you  shortly. 

"  I'll  tell  you  whut :  Until  sech  time  ez  you  are  in 
position  to  draw  on  your  own  funds  you  jest  drap  in 
here  to  see  me  when  you're  in  need  of  cash,  and  I'll  try 
to  let  you  have  whut  you  require  —  in  reason.  I'll  keep 
a  proper  reckinin'  of  whut  you  git  and  you  kin  pay  me 
back  ez  soon  ez  your  inheritance  is  put  into  your  hands. 

"  One  thing  more,"  he  added  as  the  heir,  having 
thanked  him,  was  making  his  grateful  adieu  at  the 
threshold  :  "  Now  that  you're  wealthy,  or  about  to  be  so, 
I  kind  of  imagine  quite  a  passel  of  fellers  will  suddenly 
discover  themselves  strangely  and  affectionately  drawed 
toward  you.  You're  liable  to  find  out  you've  always  had 
more  true  and  devoted  friends  in  this  community  than 
whut  you  ever  imagined  to  be  the  case  before. 

"  Now  friendship  is  a  mighty  fine  thing,  takin'  it  by 
and  large;  but  it  kin  be  overdone.  It's  barely  possible 
that  some  of  this  here  new  crop  of  your  well-wishers 
and  admirers  will  be  makin'  little  business  propositions 
to  you  —  desirin'  to  have  you  go  partners  with  'em  in 
business,  or  to  sell  you  desirable  pieces  of  real  estate : 
or  even  to  let  you  loan  'em  various  sums  of  money.  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  but  whut  a  number  of  sech  chances 
will  be  comin'  your  way  durin'  the  next  few  days,  and 
frum  then  on.  Ef  sech  should  be  the  case  I  would  sug- 
gest to  you  that,  before  committin'  yourself  to  anybody 
or  anything,  you  tell  'em  that  I'm  sort  of  actin'  as  your 
unofficial  adviser  in  money  matters,  and  that  they  should 
come  to  me  and  outline  their  little  schemes  in  person. 
Do  you  git  my  general  drift?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,"  said  Peep.  "  I  won't  furgit ;  and  thank 
you  ag'in.  Judge,  specially  fur  lettin'  me  have  this  dollar 
ahead  of  time." 

He  shambled  out  with  the  coin  in  his  hand ;  and  on 
his  face  was  again  the  look  of  one  who  sees  before  him 
the  immediate  fulfillment  of  a  delectable  dream. 

With  lines  of  sympathy  and  amusement  crosshatched 


98  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

at  the  outer  corners  of  his  eyehds,  Judge  Priest,  rising 
^and  stepping  to  his  door,  watched  the  retreating  figure  of 
the  town's  newest  and  strangest  capitahst  disappear  down 
the  wide  front  steps  of  the  courthouse. 

Presently  he  went  back  to  his  chair  and  sat  down,  tug- 
ging at  his  short  chin  beard. 

"  I  wonder  now,"  said  he,  meditatively  addressing  the 
emptiness  of  the  room,  "  I  wonder  whut  a  man  sixty-odd- 
year  old  is  goin'  to  do  with  the  fust  whole  dollar  he  ever 
had  in  his  life !  " 

It  was  characteristic  of  our  circuit  judge  that  he 
should  have  voiced  his  curiosity  aloud.  Talking  to  him- 
self when  he  was  alone  was  one  of  his  habits.  Also,  it 
was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  had  refrained  from 
betraying  his  inquisitiveness  to  his  late  caller.  Similar 
motives  of  delicacy  had  kept  him  from  following  the 
other  man  to  watch  the  sequence. 

However,  at  secondhand,  the  details  very  shortly 
reached  him.  They  were  brought  by  no  less  a  person 
than  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles,  who,  some  twenty  minutes 
or  possibly  half  an  hour  later,  obtruded  himself  upon 
Judge  Priest's  presence. 

"  Judge,"  began-  Mr.  Quarles,  "  you'd  never  in  the 
world  guess  whut  Old  Peep  O'Day  done  with  the  first 
piece  of  money  he  got  his  hands  on  out  of  that  there 
forty  thousand  pounds  of  silver  dollars  he's  come  into 
from  his  uncle's  estate." 

The  old  man  slanted  a  keen  glance  in  Mr.  Quarles' 
direction. 

"  Tell  me,  son,"  he  asked  softly,  "  how  did  you  come 
to  hear  the  glad  tidin's  so  promptly  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  "  said  Mr.  Quarles  innocently.  "  Why,  Judge 
Priest,  the  word  is  all  over  this  part  of  town  by  this  time. 
Why,  I  reckin  twenty-five  or  fifty  people  must  'a'  been 
watchin'  Old  Peep  to  see  how  he  was  goin'  to  act  when 
he  come  out  of  this  courthouse." 

"  Well,  well,  well ! "  murmured  the  Judge  blandly. 
"  Good  news  travels  almost  ez  fast  sometimes  ez  whut 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  99 

bad  news  does  —  don't  it,  now  ?  Well,  son,  I  give  up  the 
riddle.  Tell  me  jest  whut  our  elderly  friend  did  do  with 
the  first  installment  of  his  inheritance." 

"  Well,  suh,  he  turned  south  here  at  the  gate  and  went 
down  the  street,  a-lookin'  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 
He  looked  to  me  like  a  man  in  a  trance,  almost.  He  keeps 
right  on  through  Legal  Row  till  he  comes  to  Franklin 
Street,  and  then  he  goes  up  Franklin  to  B.  Weil  &  Son's 
confectionery  store ;  and  there  he  turns  in.  I  happened 
to  be  followin'  'long  behind  him,  with  a  few  others  — 
with  several  others,  in  fact  —  and  we-all  sort  of  slowed 
up  in  passin'  and  looked  in  at  the  door ;  and  that's  how  I 
come  to  be  in  a  position  to  see  what  happened. 

"  Old  Peep,  he  marches  in  jest  like  I'm  tellin'  it  to  you, 
suh;  and  >Ir.  B.  Weil  comes  to  wait  on  him,  and  he 
starts  in  buyin'.  He  buys  hisself  a  five-cent  bag  of 
gumdrops ;  and  a  five-cent  bag  of  jelly  beans ;  and  a  ten- 
cent  bag  of  mixed  candies  —  kisses  and  candy  mottoes, 
and  sech  ez  them,  you  know ;  and  a  sack  of  fresh-roasted 
peanuts  —  a  big  sack,  it  was,  fifteen-cent  size;  and  two 
prize  boxes  ;  and  some  gingersnaps  —  ten  cents'  worth  ; 
and  a  cocoanut ;  and  half  a  dozen  red  bananas ;  and  half 
a  dozen  more  of  the  plain  yaller  ones.  Altogether  I 
figger  he  spent  a  even  dollar ;  in  fact,  I  seen  him  hand 
Mr.  Weil  a  dollar,  and  I  didn't  see  him  gittin'  no  change 
back  out  of  it. 

"  Then  he  comes  on  out  of  the  store,  with  all  these 
things  stuck  in  his  pockets  and  stacked  up  in  his  arms  till 
he  looks  sort  of  like  some  new  kind  of  a  summertime 
Santy  Klaws ;  and  he  sets  down  on  a  goods  box  at  the 
edge  of  the  pavement,  with  his  feet  in  the  gutter,  and 
starts  in  eatin'  all  them  things. 

"  First,  he  takes  a  bite  ofif  a  yaller  banana  and  then  off  a 
red  banana,  and  then  a  mouthful  of  peanuts;  and  then 
maybe  some  mixed  candies  —  not  sayin'  a  word  to  no- 
body, but  jest  natchelly  eatin'  his  fool  head  off.  A 
young  chap  that's  clerkin'  in  Bagby's  grocery,  next  door, 
steps  up  to  him  and  speaks  to  him,  meanin',  I  suppose. 


100  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

to  ast  him  is  it  true  he's  wealthy.  And  Old  Peep,  he  says 
to  him,  '  Please  don't  come  botherin'  me  now,  sonny  — 
I'm  busy  ketchin'  up,'  he  says;  and  keeps  right  on 
a-munchin'  and  a-chewin'  like  all  possessed. 

"  That  ain't  all  of  it,  neither,  Judge  —  not  by  a  long 
shot  it  ain't !  Purty  soon  Old  Peep  looks  round  him  at 
the  little  crowd  that's  gathered.  He  didn't  seem  to  pay 
no  heed  to  the  grown-up  people  standin'  there ;  but  he 
sees  a  couple  of  boys  about  ten  years  old  in  the  crowd, 
and  he  beckons  to  them  to  come  to  him,  and  he  makes 
room  fur  them  alongside  him  on  the  box  and  divides  up 
his  knick-knacks  with  them. 

"  When  I  left  there  to  come  on  back  here  he  had  no 
less'n  six  kids  squatted  round  him,  includin'  one  little 
nigger  boy;  and  between  'em  all  they'd  jest  finished  up 
the  last  of  the  bananas  and  peanuts  and  the  candy  and 
the  gingersnaps,  and  was  fixin'  to  take  turns  drinkin'  the 
milk  out  of  the  cocoanut.  I  s'pose  they've  got  it  all 
cracked  out  of  the  shell  and  et  up  by  now  —  the  cocoa- 
nut,  I  mean.  Judge,  you  oughter  stepped  down  into 
Franklin  Street  and  taken  a  look  at  the  picture  whilst 
there  was  still  time.  You  never  seen  sech  a  funny  sight 
in  all  your  days,  I'll  bet!  " 

"  I  reckin  'twould  be  too  late  to  be  startin'  now,"  said 
Judge  Priest.  "  I'm  right  sorry  I  missed  it.  .  .  .  Busy 
ketchin'  up,  huh?  Yes;  I  reckin  he  is.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
son,  whut  did  you  make  out  of  the  way  Peep  O'Day 
acted  ?  " 

"  Why,  suh,"  stated  Mr.  Quarles,  "  to  my  mind,  Judge, 
there  ain't  no  manner  of  doubt  but  whut  prosperity  has 
went  to  his  head  and  turned  it.  He  acted  to  me  like  a 
plum'  distracted  idiot.  A  grown  man  with  forty 
thousand  pounds  of  solid  money  settin'  on  the  side  of  a 
gutter  eatin'  jimcracks  with  a  passel  of  dirty  little  boys! 
Kin  you  figure  it  out  any  other  way,  Judge  —  except  that 
his  mind  is  gone?  " 

"  I  don't  set  myself  up  to  be  a  specialist  in  mental  dis- 
orders, son,"  said  Judge  Priest  softly ;  "  but,  sence  you 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  loi 

ask  me  the  question,  I  should  say,  speakin'  offhand,  that 
it  looks  to  me  more  ez  ef  the  heart  was  the  organ  that 
was  mainly  affected.  And  possibly  " —  he  added  this  last 
with  a  dry  little  smile  — "  and  possibly,  by  now,  the 
stomach  also." 

Whether  or  not  Mr.  Quarles  was  correct  in  his  psy- 
chopathic diagnosis,  he  certainly  had  been  right  when  he 
told  Judge  Priest  that  the  word  was  already  all  over 
the  busmess  district.  It  had  spread  fast  and  was  still 
spreading;  it  spread  to  beat  the  wireless,  traveling  as  it 
did  by  that  mouth-to-ear  method  of  communication  which 
is  so  amazingly  swift  and  generally  so  tremendously  in- 
correct. Persons  who  could  not  credit  the  tale  at  all, 
nevertheless  lost  no  time  in  giving  to  it  a  yet  wider  cir- 
culation; so  that,  as  though  borne  on  the  wind,  it  moved 
in  every  direction,  like  ripples  on  a  pond ;  and  with  each 
time  of  retelling  the  size  of  the  legacy  grew. 

The  Daily  Evenmg  News,  appearing  on  the  streets  at 
five  p.  M.,  confirmed  the  tale ;  though  by  its  account  the 
fortune  was  reduced  to  a  sum  far  below  the  gorgeously 
exaggerated  estimates  of  most  of  the  earlier  narrators. 
Between  breakfast  and  supper-time  Peep  O'Day's  position 
in  the  common  estimation  of  his  fellow  citizens  under- 
went a  radical  and  revolutionary  change.  He  ceased  — 
automatically,  as  it  were  —  to  be  a  town  character ;  he 
became,  by  universal  consent,  a  town  notable,  whose 
every  act  and  every  word  would  thereafter  be  subjected 
to  close  scrutiny  and  closer  analysis. 

The  next  morning  the  nation  at  large  had  opportunity 
to  know  of  the  great  good  fortune  that  had  befallen  Paul 
Felix  O'Day,  for  the  story  had  been  wired  to  the  city 
papers  by  the  local  correspondents  of  the  same ;  and  the 
press  associations  had  picked  up  a  stickful  of  the  story 
and  sped  it  broadcast  over  leased  wires.  Many  who  until 
that  day  had  never  heard  of  the  fortunate  man,  or,  in- 
deed, of  the  place  where  he  lived,  at  once  manifested  a 
concern  in  his  well-being. 


102  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

Certain  firms  of  investment  brokers  in  New  York  and 
Chicago  promptly  added  a  new  name  to  what  vulgarly 
they  called  their  "  sucker "  lists.  Dealers  in  mining 
stocks,  in  oil  stocks,  in  all  kinds  of  attractive  stocks, 
showed  interest;  in  circular  form  samples  of  the  most 
optimistic  and  alluring  literature  the  world  has  ever 
known  were  consigned  to  the  post,  addressed  to  Mr.  P.  F. 
O'Day,  such-and-such  a  town,  such-and-such  a  state,  care 
of  general  delivery. 

Various  lonesome  ladies  in  various  lonesome  places  lost 
no  time  in  sitting  themselves  down  and  inditing  con- 
gratulatory letters;  object  matrimony.  Some  of  these 
were  single  ladies;  others  had  been  widowed,  either  by 
death  or  request.  Various  other  persons  of  both  sexes, 
residing  here,  there,  and  elsewhere  in  our  country,  sud- 
denly remembered  that  they,  too,  were  descended  from 
the  O'Days  of  Ireland,  and  wrote  on  forthwith  to  claim 
proud  and  fond  relationship  with  the  particular  O'Day 
who  had  come  into  money. 

It  was  a  remarkable  circumstance,  which  speedily  de- 
veloped, that  one  man  should  have  so  many  distant 
cousins  scattered  over  the  Union,  and  a  thing  equally 
noteworthy  that  practically  all  these  kinspeople,  through 
no  fault  of  their  own,  should  at  the  present  moment  be 
in  such  straitened  circumstances  and  in  such  dire  need 
of  temporary  assistance  of  a  financial  nature.  Ticker 
and  printer's  ink,  operating  in  conjunction,  certainly  did 
their  work  mighty  well;  even  so,  several  days  were  to 
elapse  before  the  news  reached  one  who,  of  all  those 
who  read  it,  had  most  cause  to  feel  a  profound  personal 
sensation  in  the  intelligence. 

This  delay,  however,  was  nowise  to  be  blamed  upon 
the  tardiness  of  the  newspapers ;  it  was  occasioned  by  the 
fact  that  the  person  referred  to  was  for  the  moment  well 
out  of  contact  with  the  active  currents  of  world  aflfairs,  he 
being  confined  in  a  workhouse  at  Evansville,  Indiana. 

As  soon  as  he  had  rallied  from  the  shock  this  individual 
set  about  making  plans  to  put  himself  in  direct  touch 


.     IRVIN  S.  COBB  103 

with  the  inheritor.  He  had  ample  time  in  which  to 
frame  and  shape  his  campaign,  inasmuch  as  there  re- 
mained for  him  yet  to  serve  nearly  eight  long  and  pain- 
fully tedious  weeks  of  a  three-months'  vagrancy  sentence. 
Unlike  most  of  those  now  manifesting  their  interest,  he 
did  not  write  a  letter ;  but  he  dreamed  dreams  that  made 
him  forget  the  annoyances  of  a  ball  and  chain  fast  on 
his  ankle  and  piles  of  stubborn  stones  to  be  cracked  up 
into  fine  bits  with  a  heavy  hammer. 

We  are  getting  ahead  of  our  narrative,  though  —  days 
ahead  of  it.  The  chronological  sequence  of  events  prop- 
erly dates  from  the  morning  following  the  morning  when 
Peep  O'Day,  having  been  abruptly  translated  from  the 
masses  of  the  penniless  to  the  classes  of  the  wealthy, 
had  forthwith  embarked  upon  the  gastronomic  orgy  so 
graphically  detailed  by  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles. 

On  that  next  day  more  eyes  probably  than  had  been 
trained  in  Peep  O'Day's  direction  in  all  the  unremarked 
and  unremarkable  days  of  his  life  put  together  were 
focused  upon  him.  Persons  who  theretofore  had  re- 
garded his  existence  —  if  indeed  they  gave  it  a  thought 
—  as  one  of  the  utterly  trivial  and  inconsequential  inci- 
dents of  the  cosmic  scheme,  were  moved  to  speak  to  him, 
to  clasp  his  hand,  and,  in  numerous  instances,  to  express 
a  hearty  satisfaction  over  his  altered  circumstances.  To 
all  these,  whether  they  were  moved  by  mere  neighborly 
good  will,  or  perchance  were  inspired  by  impulses  of 
selfishness,  the  old  man  exhibited  a  mien  of  aloofness 
and  embarrassment. 

This  diffidence  or  this  suspicion  —  or  this  whatever  it 
was  —  protected  him  from  those  who  might  entertain 
covetous  and  ulterior  designs  upon  his  inheritance  even 
better  than  though  he  had  been  brusque  and  rude ;  while 
those  who  .sought  to  question  him  regarding  his  plans 
for  the  future  drew  from  him  only  mumbled  and  evasive 
replies,  which  left  them  as  deeply  in  the  dark  as  they 
had  been  before,  .\ltogether.  in  his  intercourse  with 
adults  he  appeared  shy  and  very  ill  at  ease. 


I04  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

It  was  noted,  though,  that  early  in  the  forenoon  he 
attached  to  him  perhaps  half  a  dozen  urchins,  of  whom 
the  oldest  could  scarcely  have  been  more  than  twelve  or 
thirteen  years  of  age ;  and  that  these  youngsters  remained 
his  companions  throughout  the  day.  Likewise  the  events 
of  that  day  were  such  as  to  confirm  a  majority  of  the 
observers  in  practically  the  same  belief  that  had  been 
voiced  of  Mr.  Quarles  —  namely,  that  whatever  scanty 
brains  Peep  O'Day  might  have  ever  had  were  now  com- 
pletely addled  by  the  stroke  of  luck  that  had  befallen 
him. 

In  fairness  to  all  —  to  O'Day  and  to  the  town  critics 
who  sat  in  judgment  upon  his  behavior  —  it  should  be 
stated  that  his  conduct  at  the  very  outset  was  not  entirely 
devoid  of  evidences  of  sanity.  With  his  troupe  of  rag- 
ged juveniles  trailing  behind  him,  he  first  visited  Felsburg 
Brothers'  Emporium  to  exchange  his  old  and  disreputable 
costume  for  a  wardrobe  that,  in  accordance  with  Judge 
Priest's  recommendation,  he  had  ordered  on  the  afternoon 
previous,  and  which  had  since  been  undergoing  certain 
necessary  alterations. 

With  his  meager  frame  incased  in  new  black  woolens, 
and  wearing,  as  an  incongruous  added  touch,  the  most 
brilliant  of  neckties,  a  necktie  of  the  shade  of  a  pome- 
granate blossom,  he  presently  issued  from  Felsburg 
Brothers'  and  entered  M.  Biederman's  shoe  store,  two 
doors  below.  Here  Mr.  Biederman  fitted  him  with  shoes, 
and  in  addition  noted  down  a  further  order,  which  the 
purchaser  did  not  give  until  after  he  had  conferred 
earnestly  with  the  members  of  his  youthful  entourage. 

Those  watching  this  scene  from  a  distance  saw  —  and 
perhaps  marveled  at  the  sight  —  that  already,  between 
these  small  boys,  on  the  one  part,  and  this  old  man,  on 
the  other,  a  perfect  understanding  appeared  to  have  been 
established. 

After  leaving  Biederman's,  and  tagged  by  his  small 
escorts,  O'Day  went  straight  to  the  courthouse  and,  upon 
knocking  at  the  door,  was  admitted  to  Judge   Priest's 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  105 

private  chambers,  the  boys  meantime  waiting  outside  in 
the  hall.  When  he  came  forth  he  showed  them  some- 
thing he  held  in  his  hand  and  told  them  something ;  where- 
upon all  of  them  burst  into  excited  and  joyous  whoops. 

It  was  at  that  point  that  O'Day,  by  the  common  verdict 
of  most  grown-up  onlookers,  began  to  betray  the  vagaries 
of  a  disordered  intellect.  Not  that  his  reason  had  not 
been  under  suspicion  already,  as  a  result  of  his  freakish 
excess  in  the  matter  of  B.  Weil  &  Son's  wares  on  the 
preceding  day;  but  the  relapse  that  now  followed,  as 
nearly  everybody  agreed,  was  even  more  pronounced,  even 
more  symptomatic  than  the  earlier  attack  of  aberration. 

In  brief,  this  was  what  happened:  To  begin  with, 
Mr.  Virgil  Overall,  who  dealt  in  lands  and  houses  and 
sold  insurance  of  all  the  commoner  varieties  on  the  side, 
had  stalked  O'Day  to  this  point  and  was  lying  in  wait 
for  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  courthouse  into  the  Pub- 
lic Square,  being  anxious  to  describe  to  him  some  espe- 
cially desirable  bargains,  in  both  improved  and  unim- 
proved realty;  also,  Mr.  Overall  was  prepared  to  book 
him  for  life,  accident  and  health  policies  on  the  spot. 

So  pleased  was  Mr.  Overall  at  having  distanced  his 
professional  rivals  in  the  hunt  that  he  dribbled  at  the 
mouth.  But  the  warmth  of  his  disappointment  and  in- 
dignation dried  up  the  salivary  founts  instantly  when 
the  prospective  patron  declined  to  listen  to  him  at  all  and, 
breaking  free  from  Mr.  Overall's  detaining  clasp,  hur- 
ried on  into  Legal  Row,  with  his  small  convoys  trotting 
along  ahead  and  alongside  him. 

At  the  door  of  the  Blue  Goose  Saloon  and  Short  Order 
Restaurant  its  proprietor,  by  name  Link  Iserman,  was 
lurking,  as  it  were,  in  amlDush.  He  hailed  the  approach- 
ing O'Day  most  cordially ;  he  inquired  in  a  warm  voice 
regarding  O'Day 's  health;  and  then,  with  a  rare  burst 
of  generosity,  he  invited,  nay  urged,  O'Day  to  step  in- 
side and  have  something  on  the  house  —  wines,  ales, 
liquors  or  cigars;  it  was  all  one  to  Mr.  Iserman.  The 
other  merely  shook  his  head  and,  without  a  word  of 


lo6  BOYS 'WILL  BE  BOYS 

thanks  for  the  offer,  passed  on  as  though  bent  upon  an 
important  mission. 

Mark  how  the  proofs  were  accumulating:  The  man 
had  disdained  the  company  of  men  of  approximately  his 
own  age  or  thereabout ;  he  had  refused  an  oi)portunity  to 
partake  of  refreshment  suitable  to  his  years ;  and  now 
he  stepped  into  the  Bon  Ton  toy  store  and  bought  for 
cash  —  most  inconceivable  of  acquisitions  !  —  a  little 
wagon  that  was  painted  bright  red  and  bore  on  its  sides, 
in  curlicued  letters,  the  name  Comet. 

His  next  stop  was  made  at  Bishop  &  Bryan's  grocery, 
where,  with  the  aid  of  his  youthful  compatriots,  he  first 
discriminatingly  selected,  and  then  purchased  on  credit, 
and  finally  loaded  into  the  wagon,  such  purchases  as  a 
dozen  bottles  of  soda  pop,  assorted  flavors ;  cheese,  crack- 
ers —  soda  and  animal ;  sponge  cakes  with  weather-proof 
pink  icing  on  them ;  fruits  of  the  season ;  cove  oysters ; 
a  bottle  of  pepper  sauce;  and  a  quantity  of  the  extra  large 
sized  bright  green  cucumber  pickles  known  to  the  trade  as 
the  Fancy  Jumbo  Brand,  Prime  Selected. 

Presently  the  astounding  spectacle  was  presented  of 
two  small  boys,  with  string  bridles  on  their  arms,  draw- 
ing the  wagon  through  our  town  and  out  of  it  into  the 
country,  with  Peep  O'Day  in  the  role  of  teamster  walk- 
ing alongside  the  laden  wagon.  He  was  holding  the 
lines  in  his  hands  and  shouting  orders  at  his  team,  who 
showed  a  colty  inclination  to  shy  at  objects,  to  kick  up 
their  heels  without  provocation,  and  at  intervals  to  try  to 
run  away.  Eight  or  ten  small  boys  —  for  by  now  the 
troupe  had  grown  in  number  and  in  volume  of  noise  — 
trailed  along,  keeping  step  with  their  elderly  patron  and 
advising  him  shrilly  regarding  the  management  of  his 
refractory  span. 

As  it  turned  out,  the  destination  of  this  preposterous 
procession  was  Bradshaw's  Grove,  where  the  entire  party 
spent  the  day  picnicking  in  the  woods  and,  as  reported 
by  several  reliable  witnesses,  playing  games.  It  was  not 
so  strange  that  holidaying  boys  should  play  games;  the 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  107 

amazing  feature  of  the  performance  was  that  Peep  O'Day, 
a  man  old  enough  to  be  grandfather  to  any  of  them, 
played  with  them,  bemg  by  turns  ah  Indian  chief,  a  rob- 
ber baron,  and  the  driver  of  a  stagecoach  attacked  by 
Wild  Western  desperadoes. 

When  he  returned  to  town  at  dusk,  drawing  his  little 
red  wagon  behind  him,  his  new  suit  was  rumpled  into 
many  wrinkles  and  marked  by  dust  and  grass  stains ;  his 
flame-coloreii  tie  was  twisted  under  one  ear;  his  new 
straw  hat  was  mashed  quite  out  of  shape;  and  in  his  eyes 
was  a  light  that  sundry  citizens,  on  meeting  him,  could 
only  interpret  for  a  spark  struck  from  inner  fires  of 
madness. 

Days  that  came  after  this,  on  through  the  midsummer, 
were,  with  variations,  but  repetitions  of  the  day  I  have 
just  described.  Each  morning  Peep  O'Day  would  go  to 
either  the  courthouse  or  Judge  Priest's  home  to  turn  over 
to  the  Judge  the  unopened  mail  which  had  been  delivered 
to  him  at  Gafford's  stables ;  then  he  would  secure  from 
the  Judge  a  loan  of  money  against  his  inheritance.  Gen- 
erally the  amount  of  his  daily  borrowing  was  a  dollar; 
rarely  was  it  so  much  as  two  dollars ;  and  only  once  was 
it  more  than  two  dollars. 

By  nightfall  the  sum  would  have  been  expended  upon 
perfectly  useless  and  absolutely  childish  devices.  It 
might  be  that  he  would  buy  toy  pistols  and  paper  caps 
for  himself  and  his  following  of  urchins;  or  that  his 
whim  would  lead  him  to  expend  all  the  money  in  tin 
flutes.  In  one  case  the  group  he  so  incongruously 
headed  would  be  for  that  one  day  a  gang  of  make-believe 
banditti ;  in  another,  they  would  constitute  themselves  a 
fife-and-drum  corps  —  with  barreltops  for  the  drums  — 
and  would  march  through  the  streets,  where  scandalized 
adults  stood  in  their  tracks  to  watch  them  go  by,  they 
all  the  while  making  weird  sounds,  which  with  them 
passed  for  music. 

Or  again,  the  available  cash  resources  would  be  in- 
vested in  provender ;  and  then  there  would  be  an  outing 


io8  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

in  the  woods.  Under  Peep  O'Day's  captaincy  his  chosen 
band  of  youngsters  picked  dewberries ;  they  went  swim- 
ming together  in  Guthrie's  Gravel  Pit,  out  by  the  old 
Fair  Grounds,  where  his  spare  naked  shanks  contrasted 
strongly  with  their  plump  freckled  legs  as  all  of  them 
splashed  through  the  shallows,  making  for  deep  water. 
Under  his  leadership  they  stole  watermelons  from  Mr. 
Dick  Bell's  patch,  afterward  eating  their  spoils  in  thickets 
of  grapevines  along  the  banks  of  Perkins'  Creek. 

It  was  felt  that  mental  befuddlement  and  mortal  folly 
could  reach  no  greater  heights  —  or  no  lower  depths  — 
than  on  a  certain  hour  of  a  certain  day,  along  toward 
the  end  of  August,  when  O'Day  came  forth  from  his 
quarters  in  Gafford's  stables,  wearing  a  pair  of  boots  that 
M.  Biederman's  establishment  had  turned  out  to  his  order 
and  his  measure  —  not  such  boots  as  a  sensible  man 
might  be  expected  to  wear,  but  boots  that  were  exag- 
gerated and  monstrous  counterfeits  of  the  red-topped, 
scroll-fronted,  brass-toed,  stub-heeled,  squeaky-soled 
bootees  that  small  boys  of  an  earlier  generation  possessed. 

Very  proudly  and  seemingly  unconscious  of,  or,  at 
least,  oblivious  to,  the  derisive  remarks  that  the  appear- 
ance of  these  new  belongings  drew  from  many  persons, 
the  owner  went  clumping  about  in  them,  with  the  rumply 
legs  of  his  trousers  tucked  down  in  them,  and  ballooning 
up  and  out  over  the  tops  in  folds  which  overlapped  from 
his  knee  joints  halfway  down  his  attenuated  calves. 

As  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles  said,  the  combination  was 
a  sight  fit  to  make  a  horse  laugh.  It  may  be  that  small 
boys  have  a  lesser  sense  of  humor  than  horses  have,  for 
certainly  the  boys  who  were  the  old  man's  invariable 
shadows  did  not  laugh  at  him,  or  at  his  boots  either. 
Between  the  whiskered  senior  and  his  small  comrades 
there  existed  a  freemasonry  that  made  them  all  sense 
a  thing  beyond  the  ken  of  most  of  their  elders.  Perhaps 
this  was  because  the  elders,  being  blind  in  their  superior 
wisdom,  saw  neither  this  thing  nor  the  communion  that 
flourished.     They  saw  only  the  farcical  joke.     But  His 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  109 

Honor,  Judge  Priest,  to  cite  a  conspicuous  exception, 
seemed  not  to  see  the  lamentable  comedy  of  it. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  to  some  almost  as  if  Judge  Priest 
were  aiding  and  abetting  the  befogged  O'Day  in  his  de- 
mented enterprises,  his  peculiar  excursions  and  his  weird 
purchases.  If  he  did  not  actually  encourage  him  in  these 
constant  exhibitions  of  witlessness,  certainly  there  were 
no  evidences  available  to  show  that  he  sought  to  dissuade 
O'Day  from  his  strange  course. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  one  citizen,  in  whom  patience 
had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue  and  to  whose  nature  long-con- 
tinued silence  on  any  public  topic  was  intolerable,  felt  it 
his  duty  to  speak  to  the  Judge  upon  the  subject.  This 
gentleman  —  his  name  was  S.  P.  Escott  —  held,  with 
many,  that,  for  the  good  name  of  the  community,  steps 
should  be  taken  to  abate  the  infantile,  futile  activities  of 
the  besotted  legatee. 

Afterward  Mr.  Escott,  giving  a  partial  account  of  the 
conversation  with  Judge  Priest  to  certain  of  his  friends, 
showed  unfeigned  annoyance  at  the  outcome. 

"  I  claim  that  old  man's  not  fittin'  to  be  runnin'  a  court 
any  longer,"  he  stated  bitterly.  "  He's  too  old  and 
peevish  —  that's  what  ails  him !  For  one,  I'm  certainly 
not  never  goin'  to  vote  fur  him  again.  Why,  it's  gettin' 
to  be  ez  much  ez  a  man's  life  is  worth  to  stop  that  there 
spiteful  old  crank  in  the  street  and  put  a  civil  question 
to  him  —  that's  whut's  the  matter!  " 

"  What  happened  S.  P.  ?  "  inquired  some  one. 

"  Why,  here's  what  happened !  "  exclaimed  the  ag- 
grieved Mr.  Escott.  "  I  hadn't  any  more  than  started  in 
to  tell  him  the  whole  town  was  talkin'  about  the  way  that 
daflfy  Old  Peep  O'Day  was  carryin'  on,  and  that  some- 
thin'  had  oughter  be  done  about  it,  and  didn't  he  think 
it  was  beholdin'  on  him  ez  circuit  judge  to  do  somethin' 
right  away,  sech  ez  havin'  O'Day  tuck  up  and  tried  fur 
a  lunatic,  and  that  I  fur  one  was  ready  and  willin'  to 
testify  to  the  crazy  things  I'd  seen  done  with  my  own 
eyes  —  when  he  cut  in  on  me  and  jest  ez  good  ez  told 


no  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

me  to  my  own  face  that  ef  I'd  quit  tendin'  to  other 
people's  business  I'd  mebbe  have  more  business  of  my 
own  to  tend  to. 

"Think  of  that,  gentlemen!  A  circuit  judge  be- 
meanin'  a  citizen  and  a  taxpayer  " —  he  checked  himself 
slightly  — "  anyhow,  a  citizen,  thataway  !  It  shows  he 
can't  be  rational  his  ownself.  Personally  I  claim  Old 
Priest  is  failin'  mentally  —  he  must  be !  And  ef  any- 
body kin  be  found  to  run  against  him  at  the  next  election 
you  gentlemen  jest  watch  and  see  who  gits  my  vote! " 

Having  uttered  this  threat  with  deep  and  significant 
emphasis  Mr.  Escott,  still  muttering,  turned  and  entered 
the  front  gate  of  his  boarding  house.  It  was  not  ex- 
actly his  boarding  house;  his  wife  ran  it.  But  Mr. 
Escott  lived  there  and  voted  from  there. 

But  the  apogee  of  Peep  O'Day's  carnival  of  weird 
vagaries  of  deportment  came  at  the  end  of  two  months 
—  two  months  in  which  each  day  the  man  furnished 
cumulative  and  piled-up  material  for  derisive  and  jocular 
comment  on  the  part  of  a  very  considerable  proportion 
of  his  fellow  townsmen. 

Three  occurrences  of  a  widely  dissimilar  nature,  yet 
all  closely  interrelated  to  the  main  issue,  marked  the 
climax  of  the  man's  new  role  in  his  new  career.  The 
first  of  these  was  the  arrival  of  his  legacy;  the  second 
was  a  one-ring  circus;  and  the  third  and  last  was  a 
nephew. 

In  the  form  of  sundry  bills  of  exchange  the  estate  left 
by  the  late  Daniel  O'Day,  of  the  town  of  Kilmare,  in 
the  island  of  Ireland,  was  on  a  certain  afternoon  de- 
livered over  into  Judge  Priest's  hands,  and  by  him,  in 
turn,  handed  to  the  rightful  owner,  after  which  sundry 
indebtednesses,  representing  the  total  of  the  old  Judge's 
day-to-day  cash  advances  to  O'Day,  were  liquidated. 

The  ceremony  of  deducting  this  sum  took  place  at  the 
Planters'  Bank,  whither  the  two  had  journeyed  in  com- 
pany from  the  courthouse.  Having,  with  the  aid  of  the 
paying  teller,  instructed  O'Day  in  the  technical  details 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  III 

requisite  to  the  drawing  of  personal  checks,  Judge  Priest 
went  home  and  had  his  bag  packed,  and  left  for  Reelfoot 
Lake  to  spend  a  week  fishing.  As  a  consequence  he 
missed  the  remaining  two  events,  following  immediately 
thereafter. 

The  circus  was  no  great  shakes  of  a  circus ;  no  grand, 
glittering,  gorgeous,  glorious  pageant  of  education  and 
entertainment,  traveling  on  its  own  special  trains ;  no  vast 
tented  city  of  world's  wonders  and  world's  champions, 
heralded  for  weeks  and  weeks  in  advance  of  its  coming 
by  dead  walls  emblazoned  with  the  finest  examples  of 
the  lithographer's  art,  and  by  half-page  advertisements  in 
the  Daily  Evening  News.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  a 
shabby  little  wagon  show,  which,  coming  overland  on 
.  short  notice,  rolled  into  town  under  horse  power,  and 
set  up  its  ragged  and  dusty  canvases  on  the  vacant  lot 
across  from  Yeiser's  dmg  store. 

Compared  with  the  street  parade  of  any  of  its  great  and 
famous  rivals,  the  street  parade  of  this  circus  was  a 
meager  and  disappointing  thing.  Why,  there  was  only 
one  elephant,  a  dwarfish  and  debilitated-looking  creature, 
worn  mangy  and  slick  on  its  various  angles,  like  the  cover 
of  an  old-fashioned  haircloth  trunk ;  and  obviously  most 
of  the  closed  cages  were  weather-beaten  stake  wagons  in 
disguise.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  sizable  turnout  of 
people  for  the  afternoon  performance.  After  all,  a  cir- 
cus was  a  circus. 

Moreover,  this  particular  circus  was  marked  at  the 
afternoon  performance  by  happenings  of  a  nature  most 
decidedly  unusual.  At  one  o'clock  the  doors  were 
opened ;  at  one-ten  the  eyes  of  the  proprietor  were  made 
glad  and  his  heart  was  uplifted  within  him  by  the  sight 
of  a  strange  procession,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  across 
the  scuffed  turf  of  the  Common,  and  heading  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  red  ticket  wagon. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  marched  Peep  O'Day  — 
only,  of  course,  the  proprietor  didn't  know  it  was  Peep 
O'Day  —  a  queer  figure  in  his  rumpled  black  clothes  and 


112  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

his  red-topped  brass-toed  boots,  and  with  one  hand 
holding  fast  to  the  string  of  a  captive  toy  balloon.  Be- 
hind him,  in  an  uneven  jostling  formation,  followed  many 
small  boys  and  some  small  girls.  A  census  of  the  ranks 
would  have  developed  that  here  were  included  practically 
all  the  juvenile  white  population  who  otherwise,  through 
a  lack  of  funds,  would  have  been  denied  the  opportunity 
to  patronize  this  circus  or,  in  fact,  any  circus. 

Each  member  of  the  joyous  company  was  likewise  the 
bearer  of  a  toy  balloon  —  red,  yellow,  blue,  green,  or 
purple,  as  the  case  might  be.  Over  the  line  of  heads  the 
taut  rubbery  globes  rode  on  their  tethers,  nodding  and 
twisting  like  so  many  big  iridescent  bubbles;  and  half  a 
block  away,  at  the  edge  of  the  lot,  a  balloon  vender,  whose 
entire  stock  had  been  disposed  of  in  one  splendid  transac- 
tion, now  stood,  empty-handed  but  full-pocketed,  mar- 
veling at  the  stroke  of  luck  that  enabled  him  to  take  an 
afternoon  off  and  rest  his  voice. 

Out  of  a  seemingly  bottomless  exchequer  Peep  O'Day 
bought  tickets  of  admission  for  all.  But  this  was  only 
the  beginning.  Once  inside  the  tent  he  procured  ac- 
commodations in  the  reserved-seat  section  for  himself 
and  those  who  accompanied  him.  From  such  superior 
points  of  vantage  the  whole  crew  of  them  witnessed  the 
performance,  from  the  thrilling  grand  entry,  with  span- 
gled ladies  and  gentlemen  riding  two  by  two  on  broad- 
backed  steeds,  to  the  tumbling  bout  introducing  the  full 
strength  of  the  company,  which  came  at  the  end. 

They  munched  fresh-roasted  peanuts  and  balls  of 
sugar-coated  popcorn,  slightly  rancid,  until  they  munched 
no  longer  with  zest  but  merely  mechanically.  They  drank 
pink  lemonade  to  an  extent  that  threatened  absolute  de- 
pletion of  the  fluid  contents  of  both  barrels  in  the  re- 
freshment stand  out  in  the  menagerie  tent.  They 
whooped  their  unbridled  approval  when  the  wild  Indian 
chief,  after  shooting  down  a  stuffed  coon  with  a  bow  and 
arrow  from  somewhere  up  near  the  top  of  the  center  pole 
while  .balancing  himself  jauntily  erect  upon  the  haunches 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  113 

of  a  coursing  white  charger,  suddenly  flung  off  his  feath- 
ered headdress,  his  wig  and  his  fringed  leather  garments, 
and  revealed  himself  in  pink  fleshings  as  the  principal 
bareback  rider. 

They  screamed  in  a  chorus  of  delight  when  the  funny 
old  clown,  who  had  been  forcibly  deprived  of  three  tin 
flutes  in  rapid  succession,  now  produced  yet  a  fourth 
from  the  seemingly  inexhaustible  depths  of  his  baggy 
white  pants  —  a  flute  with  a  string  and  a  bent  pin  attached 
to  it  —  and,  secretly  affixing  the  pin  in  the  tail  of  the  cross 
ringmaster's  coat,  was  thereafter  enabled  to  toot  sharp 
shrill  blasts  at  frequent  intervals,  much  to  the  chagrin  of 
the  ringmaster,  who  seemed  utterly  unable  to  discover 
the  whereabouts  of  the  instrument  dangling  behind  him. 

But  no  one  among  them  whooped  louder  or  laughed 
longer  than  their  elderly  and  bewhiskered  friend,  who  sat 
among  them,  paying  the  bills.  As  his  guests  they  stayed 
for  the  concert ;  and,  following  this,  they  patronized  the 
side  show  in  a  body.  They  had  been  almost  the  first 
upon  the  scene ;  assuredly  they  were  the  last  of  the  audi- 
ence to  quit  it. 

Indeed,  before  they  trailed  their  confrere  away  from 
the  spot  the  sun  was  nearly  down ;  and  at  scores  of  sup- 
per tables  all  over  town  the  tale  of  poor  old  Peep  O'Day's 
latest  exhibition  of  freakishness  was  being  retailed,  with 
elaborations,  to  interested  auditors.  Estimates  of  the 
sum  probably  expended  by  him  in  this  crowning  extrava- 
gance ranged  well  up  into  the  hundreds  of  dollars. 

As  for  the  object  of  these  speculations,  he  was  des- 
tined not  to  eat  any  supper  at  all  that  night.  Something 
happened  that  so  upset  him  as  to  make  him  forget  the 
meal  altogether.  It  began  to  happen  when  he  reached 
the  modest  home  of  P.  Gafford,  adjoining  the  Gafford 
stables,  on  Locust  Street,  and  found  sitting  on  the  lower- 
most step  of  the  porch  a  young  man  of  untidy  and  un- 
shaved  aspect,  who  hailed  him  affectionately  as  Uncle 
Paul,  and  who  showed  deep  annoyance  and  acute  distress 
upon  being  rebuffed  with  chill  words. 


114  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

It  is  possible  that  the  strain  of  serving  a  three-months' 
sentence,  on  the  technical  charge  of  vagrancy,  in  a  vi^ork- 
house  somewhere  in  Indiana,  had  affected,  the  young 
man's  nerves.  His  ankle  bones  still  ached  where  the 
ball  and  chain  had  been  hitched ;  on  his  palms  the  blisters 
induced  by  the  uncongenial  use  of  a  sledge  hammer  on  a 
rock  pile  had  hardly  as  yet  turned  to  calluses.  So  it  is 
only  fair  to  presume  that  his  nervous  system  felt  the 
stress  of  his  recent  confining  experiences  also. 

Almost  tearfully  he  pleaded  with  Peep  O'Day  to  re- 
member the  ties  of  blood  that  bound  them;  repeatedly 
he  pointed  out  that  he  was  the  only  known  kinsman  of 
the  other  in  all  the  world,  and,  therefore,  had  more  rea- 
son than  any  other  living  being  to  expect  kindness  and 
generosity  at  his  uncle's  hands.  He  spoke  socialistically 
of  the  advisability  of  an  equal  division ;  failing  to  make 
any  impression  here  he  mentioned  the  subject  of  a  loan  — 
at  first  hopefully,  but  finally  despairingly. 

When  he  was  done  Peep  O'Day,  in  a  perfectly  colorless 
and  unsympathetic  voice,  bade  him  good-by  —  not  good- 
night but  good-by !  And,  going  inside  the  house,  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  leaving  his  newly  returned 
relative  outside  and  quite  alone. 

At  this  the  young  man  uttered  violent  language ;  but. 
since  there  was  nobody  present  to  hear  him,  it  is  Hkely 
he  found  small  satisfaction  in  his  profanity,  rich  though 
it  may  have  been  in  metaphor  and  variety.  So  presently 
he  betook  himself  off,  going  straight  to  the  office  in  Legal 
Row  of  H.  B.  Sublette,  Attorney-at-law. 

From  the  circumstance  that  he  found  Mr.  Sublette  in, 
though  it  was  long  past  that  gentleman's  office  hours,  and, 
moreover,  found  Mr.  Sublette  waiting  in  an  expectant 
and  attentive  attitude,  it  might  have  been  adduced  by  one 
skilled  in  the  trick  of  putting  two  and  two  together  that 
the  pair  of  them  had  reached  a  prior  understanding  some- 
time during  the  day ;  and  that  the  visit  of  the  young  man 
to  the  Gafford  home  and  his  speeches  there  had  all  been 
parts  of  a  scheme  planned  out  at  a  prior  conference. 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  115 

Be  this  as  it  may,  so  soon  as  Mr.  Sublette  had  heard 
his  caller's  version  of  the  meeting  upon  the  porch  he  lost 
no  time  in  taking  certain  legal  steps.  That  very  night, 
on  behalf  of  his  client,  denominated  in  the  documents  as 
Percival  Dwyer,  Esquire,  he  prepared  a  petition  ad- 
dressed to  the  circuit  judge  of  the  district,  setting  forth 
that,  inasmuch  as  Paul  Felix  O'Day  had  by  divers  acts 
shown  himself  to  be  of  unsound  mind,  now,  therefore, 
came  his  nephew  and  next  of  kin  praying  that  a  commit- 
tee or  curator  be  appointed  to  take  over  the  estate  of  the 
said  Paul  Felix  O'Day,  and  administer  the  same  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  orders  of  the  court  until  such  time  as 
the  said  Paul  Felix  O'Day  should  recover  his  reason,  or 
should  pass  from  this  life,  and  so  forth  and  so  on ;  not 
to  mention  whereases  in  great  number  and  aforesaids 
abounding  throughout  the  text  in  the  utmost  profusion. 

On  the  following  morning  the  papers  were  filed  with 
Circuit  Clerk  Milam.  That  vigilant  barrister,  Mr.  Sub- 
lette, brought  them  in  person  to  the  courthouse  before 
nine  o'clock,  he  having  the  interests  of  his  client  at  heart 
and  perhaps  also  visions  of  a  large  contingent  fee  in  his 
mind.  No  retainer  had  been  paid.  The  state  of  Mr. 
Dwyer's  finances  —  or,  rather,  the  absence  of  any  finances 
—  had  precluded  the  performance  of  that  customary  de- 
tail ;  but  to  Mr.  Sublette's  experienced  mind  the  prospects 
of  future  increment  seemed  large. 

Accordingly  he  was  all  for  prompt  action.  Formally 
he  said  he  wished  to  go  on  record  as  demanding  for  his 
principal  a  speedy  hearing  of  the  issue,  with  a  view  to 
preventing  the  defendant  named  in  the  pleadings  from 
dissipating  any  more  of  the  estate  lately  bequeathed  to 
him  and  now  fully  in  his  possession  —  or  words  to  that 
effect. 

Mr.  Milam  felt  justified  in  getting  into  communication 
with  Judge  Priest  over  the  long-distance  'phone ;  and  the 
Judge,  cutting  short  his  vacation  and  leaving  uncaught 
vast  numbers  of  bass  and  perch  in  Reelfoot  Lake,  came 
home,  arriving  late  that  night. 


ii6  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

Next  morning,  having  issued  divers  orders  in  connec- 
tion with  the  impending  Htigation,  he  sent  a  messenger 
to  find  Peep  O'Day  and  to  direct  O'Day  to  come  to  the 
courthouse  for  a  personal  interview. 

Shortly  thereafter  a  scene  that  had  occurred  some  two 
months  earlier,  with  his  Honor's  private  chamber  for  a 
setting,  was  substantially  duplicated:  there  was  the 
same  cast  of  two,  the  same  stage  properties,  the  same 
atmosphere  of  untidy  tidiness.  And,  as  before,  the  dia- 
logue was  in  Judge  Priest's  hands.  He  led  and  his  fel- 
low character  followed  his  leads. 

"  Peep,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  understand,  don't  you, 
that  this  here  fragrant  nephew  of  yours  that's  turned  up 
from  nowheres  in  particular  is  fixin'  to  git  ready  to  try 
to  prove  that  you  are  feeble-minded?  And,  on  top  of 
that,  that  he's  goin'  to  ask  that  a  committee  be  app'inted 
fur  you  —  in  other  words,  that  somebody  or  other  shall  be 
named  by  the  court,  meanin'  me,  to  take  charge  of  your 
property  and  control  the  spendin'  of  it  frum  now  on?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,"  stated  O'Day.  "  Pete  GaiTord  he  set  down 
with  me  and  made  hit  all  clear  to  me,  yestiddy  evenin', 
after  they'd  done  served  the  papers  on  me." 

"  All  right,  then.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  fix  the  hearin'  fur 
to-morrow  momin'  at  ten.  The  other  side  is  askin'  fur  a 
quick  decision ;  and  I  rather  figger  they're  entitled  to  it. 
Is  that  agreeable  to  you  ?  " 

"  Whutever  you  say.  Judge." 

"  Well,  have  you  retained  a  lawyer  to  represent  your 
interests  in  court?  That's  the  main  question  that  I  sent 
fur  you  to  ast  you." 

"  Do  I  need  a  lawyer,  Judge  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  have  been  times  when  I  regarded  lawyers 
ez  bein'  superfluous,"  stated  Judge  Priest  dryly.  "  Still, 
in  most  cases  litigants  do  have  'em  round  when  the  case  is 
bein'  heard." 

"  I  don't  know  ez  I  need  any  lawyer  to  he'p  me  say 
whut  I've  got  to  say,"  said  O'Day.  "  Judge,  you  ain't 
never  ast  me  no  questions  about  the  v^ay  I've  been  car- 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  117 

ryin'  on  sence  I  come  into  this  here  money ;  but  I  reckin 
mebbe  this  is  ez  good  a  time  ez  any  to  tell  you  jest  why 
I've  been  actin'  the  way  I've  done.     You  see,  suh  — " 

"  Hold  on !  "  broke  in  Judge  Priest,  "  Up  to  now,  ez 
my  friend,  it  would  'a'  been  perfectly  proper  fur  you  to 
give  me  your  confidences  ef  you  were  minded  so  to  do; 
but  now  I  reckin  you'd  better  not.  You  see,  I'm  the 
judge  that's  got  to  decide  whether  you  are  a  responsible 
person  —  whether  you're  mentally  capable  of  handlin' 
your  own  financial  affairs,  or  whether  you  ain't.  So 
you'd  better  wait  and  make  your  statement  in  your  own 
behalf  to  me  whilst  I'm  settin'  on  the  bench.  I'll  see  that 
you  git  an  opportunity  to  do  so  and  I'll  listen  to  it ;  and 
I'll  give  it  all  the  consideration  it's  deservin'  of. 

"  And,  on  second  thought,  p'raps  it  would  only  be  a 
waste  of  time  and  money  fur  you  to  go  hirin'  a  lawyer 
specially  to  represent  you.  Under  the  law  it's  my  duty, 
in  sech  a  case  ez  this  here  one  is,  to  app'int  a  member  of 
the  bar  to  serve  durin'  the  proceedin's  ez  your  guardian 
ad  litem. 

"  You  don't  need  to  be  startled,"  he  added,  as  O'Day 
flinched  at  the  sound  in  his  ears  of  these  strange  and  fear- 
some words.  "  A  guardian  ad  litem  is  simply  a  lawyer 
that  tends  to  your  affairs  till  the  case  is  settled  one  way 
or  the  other.  Ef  you  had  a  dozen  lawyers  I'd  have  to 
app'int  him  jest  the  same.  So  you  don't  need  to  worry 
about  that  part  of  it. 

"  That's  all.  You  kin  go  now  ef  you  want  to.  Only, 
ef  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  draw  out  any  more  money  frum 
the  bank  'twixt  now  and  the  time  when  I  make  my  de- 
cision." 

All  things  considered,  it  was  an  unusual  assemblage  that 
Judge  Priest  regarded  over  the  top  rims  of  his  glasses  as 
he  sat  facing  it  in  his  broad  armchair,  with  the  flat  top 
of  the  bench  intervening  between  him  and  the  gathering. 
Not  often,  even  in  the  case  of  exciting  murder  trials,  had 
the  old  courtroom  held  a  larger  crowd;  certainly  never 


Ii8  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

had  it  held  so  many  boys.  Boys,  and  boys  exclusively, 
filled  the  back  rows  of  benches  downstairs.  More  boys 
packed  the  narrow  shelf-Hke  balcony  that  spanned  the 
chamber  across  its  far  end  —  mainly  small  boys,  bare- 
footed, sunburned,  freckle- faced,  shock-headed  boys. 
And,  for  boys,  they  were  strangely  silent  and  strangely 
attentive. 

The  petitioner  sat  with  his  counsel,  Mr.  Sublette.  The 
petitioner  had  been  newly  shaved,  and  from  some  myste- 
rious source  had  been  equipped  with  a  neat  wardrobe. 
Plainly  he  was  endeavoring  to  wear  a  look  of  virtue, 
which  was  a  difficult  undertaking,  as  you  would  under- 
stand had  you  known  the  petitioner. 

The  defending  party  to  the  action  was  seated  across 
the  room,  touching  elbows  with  old  Colonel  Farrell,  dean 
of  the  local  bar  and  its  most  florid  orator. 

"  The  court  will  designate  Col.  Horatio  Farrell  as 
guardian  ad  litem  for  the  defendant  during  these  pro- 
ceedings," Judge  Priest  had  stated  a  few  minutes  earlier, 
using  the  formal  and  grammatical  language  he  reserved 
exclusively  for  his  courtroom. 

At  once  old  Colonel  Farrell  had  hitched  his  chair  up 
alongside  O'Day;  had  asked  him  several  questions  in  a 
tone  inaudible  to  those  about  them ;  had  listened  to  the 
whispered  answers  of  O'Day ;  and  then  had  nodded  his 
huge  curly  white  dome  of  a  head,  as  though  amply  satis- 
fied with  the  responses. 

Let  us  skip  the  preliminaries.  True,  they  seemed  to 
interest  the  audience ;  here,  though,  they  would  be  tedious 
reading.  Likewise,  in  touching  upon  the  opening  and 
outlining  address  of  Attorney-at-Law  Sublette  let  us,  for 
the  sake  of  time  and  space,  be  very  much  briefer  than 
Mr.  Sublette  was.  For  our  present  purposes,  I  deem  it 
sufficient  to  say  that  in  all  his  professional  career  Mr. 
Sublette  was  never  more  eloquent,  never  more  forceful, 
never  more  vehement  in  his  allegations,  and  never  more 
convinced  —  as  he  himself  stated,  not  once  but  repeatedly 
—  of  his  ability  to  prove  the  facts  he  alleged  by  compe- 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  119 

tent  and  unbiased  testimony.  These  facts,  he  pointed 
out,  were  common  knowledge  in  the  community ;  never- 
theless, he  stood  prepared  to  buttress  them  with  the  evi- 
dence of  reputable  witnesses,  given  under  oath. 

Mr.  Sublette,  having  unwound  at  length,  now  wound 
up.  He  sat  down,  perspiring  freely  and  through  the 
perspiration  radiating  confidence  in  his  contentions,  con- 
fidence in  the  result,  and,  most  of  all,  unbounded  confi- 
dence in  Mr.  Sublette. 

Now  Colonel  Farrell  was  standing  up  to  address  the 
court.  Under  the  cloak  of  a  theatrical  presence  and  a 
large  orotund  manner,  and  behind  a  Ciceronian  command 
of  sonorous  language,  the  colonel  carried  concealed  a 
shrewd  old  brain.  It  was  as  though  a  skilled  marksman 
lurked  in  ambush  amid  a  tangle  of  luxuriant  foliage.  In 
this  particular  instance,  moreover,  it  is  barely  possible 
that  the  colonel  was  acting  on  a  cue,  privily  conveyed  to 
him  before  the  court  opened. 

**  May  it  please  Your  Honor,"  he  began,  "  I  have  just 
conferred  with  the  defendant  here ;  and,  acting  in  the 
capacity  of  his  guardian  ad  litem,  I  have  advised  him  to 
waive  an  opening  address  by  counsel.  Indeed,  the  de- 
fendant has  no  counsel.  Furthermore,  the  defendant, 
also  acting  upon  my  advice,  will  present  no  witnesses  in 
his  own  behalf.  But,  with  Your  Honor's  permission,  the 
defendant  will  now  make  a  personal  statement ;  and  there- 
after he  will  rest  content,  leaving  the  final  arbitrament 
of  the  issue  to  Your  Honor's  discretion." 

"I  object!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sublette  briskly. 

"On  what  ground  does  the  learned  counsel  object?" 
inquired  Judge  Priest. 

"  On  the  grounds  that,  since  the  mental  competence  of 
this  man  is  concerned  —  since  it  is  our  contention  that 
he  is  patently  and  plainly  a  victim  of  senility,  an  indi- 
vidual prematurely  in  his  dotage  —  any  utterances  by  him 
will  be  of  no  value  whatsoever  in  aiding  the  conscience 
and  intelligence  of  the  court  to  arrive  at  a  fair  and  just 
conclusion  regarding  the  defendant's  mental  condition." 


I20  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

Mr.  Sublette  excelled  in  the  use  of  big  words ;  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that. 

"  The  objection  is  overruled,"  said  Judge  Priest.  He 
nodded  in  the  direction  of  O'Day  and  Colonel  Farrell. 
"  The  court  will  hear  the  defendant.  He  is  not  to  be 
interrupted  while  making  his  statement.  The  defendant 
may  proceed." 

Without  further  urging,  O'Day  stood  up,  a  tall,  slab- 
sided  rack  of  a  man,  with  his  long  arms  dangling  at  his 
sides,  half  facing  Judge  Priest  and  half  facing  his  nephew 
and  his  nephew's  lawyer.  Without  hesitation  he  began 
to  speak.     And  this  was  what  he  said : 

"  There's  mebbe  some  here  ez  knows  about  how  I  was 
raised  and  fetched  up.  My  paw  and  my  maw  died  when 
I  was  jest  only  a  baby ;  so  I  was  brung  up  out  here  at 
the  old  county  porehouse  ez  a  pauper.  I  can't  remember 
the  time  when  I  didn't  have  to  work  for  my  board  and 
keep,  and  work  hard.  While  other  boys  was  goin'  to 
school  and  playin'  hooky,  and  goin'  in  washin'  in  the 
creek,  and  playin'  games,  and  all  sech  ez  that,  I  had  to 
work.  I  never  done  no  playin'  round  in  my  whole  life 
—  not  till  here  jest  recently,  anyway. 

"  But  I  always  craved  to  play  round  some.  I  didn't 
never  say  nothin'  about  it  to  nobody  after  I  growed  up, 
'cause  I  figgered  it  out  they  wouldn't  understand  and 
mebbe'd  laugh  at  me;  but  all  these  years,  ever  sence  I 
left  that  there  porehouse,  I've  had  a  hankerin'  here  inside 
of  me" — he  lifted  one  hand  and  touched  his  breast  — 
"  I've  had  a  hankerin'  to  be  a  boy  and  to  do  all  the  things 
a  boy  does ;  to  do  the  things  I  was  chiseled  out  of  doin' 
whilst  I  was  of  a  suitable  age  to  be  doin'  'em.  I  call  to 
mind  that  I  uster  dream  in  my  sleep  about  doin'  'em ;  but 
the  dream  never  come  true  —  not  till  jest  here  lately. 
It  didn't  have  no  chancet  to  come  true  —  not  till  then. 

"  So,  when  this  money  come  to  me  so  sudden  and  un- 
beknownstlike  I  said  to  myself  that  I  was  goin'  to  make 
that  there  dream  come  true ;  and  I  started  out  fur  to  do 
it.    And  I  done  it!     And  I  reckin  that's  the  cause  of 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  121 

my  bein'  here  to-day,  accused  of  bein'  feeble-minded. 
But,  even  so,  I  don't  regret  it  none.  Ef  it  was  all  to  do 
over  ag'in,  I'd  do  it  jest  the  very  same  way. 

"  Why,  I  never  knowed  whut  it  was,  till  here  two 
months  or  so  ago,  to  have  my  fill  of  bananas  and  candy 
and  gingersnaps,  and  all  sech  knickknacks  ez  them.  All 
my  life  I've  been  cravin'  secretly  to  own  a  pair  of  red- 
topped  boots  with  brass  toes  on  'em,  like  I  used  to  see 
other  boys  wearin'  in  the  wintertime  when  I  was  out 
yonder  at  that  porehouse  wearin'  an  old  pair  of  somebody 
else's  cast-off  shoes  —  mebbe  a  man's  shoes,  with  rags 
wropped  round  my  feet  to  keep  the  snow  frum  comin' 
through  the  cracks  in  'em,  and  to  keep  'em  from  slippin' 
right  spang  off  my  feet.  I  got  three  toes  frostbit  oncet 
durin'  a  cold  spell,  wearin'  them  kind  of  shoes.  But 
here  the  other  week  I  found  myself  able  to  buy  me  some 
red-top  boots  with  brass  toes  on  'em.  So  I  had  'em 
made  to  order  and  I'm  wearin'  'em  now.  I  wear  'em 
reg'lar  even  ef  it  is  summertime.  I  take  a  heap  of  pleas- 
ure out  of  'em.  And,  also,  all  my  life  long  I've  been 
wantin'  to  go  to  a  circus.  But  not  till  three  days  ago  I 
didn't  never  git  no  chancet  to  go  to  one. 

"  That  gentleman  yonder  —  Mister  Sublette  —  he 
'lowed  jest  now  that  I  was  leadin'  a  lot  of  little  boys  in 
this  here  town  into  bad  habits.  He  said  that  I  was 
leamin'  'em  nobody  knowed  whut  devilment.  And  he 
spoke  of  my  bavin'  egged  'em  on  to  steal  watermelons 
frum  Mister  Bell's  watermelon  patch  out  here  three 
miles  frum  town,  on  the  Marshallville  gravel  road. 
You-all  beared  whut  he  jest  now  said  about  that. 

"  I  don't  mean  no  offense  and  I  beg  his  pardon  fur 
contradictin'  him  right  out  before  everybody  here  in  the 
big  courthouse;  but,  mister,  you're  wrong.  I  don't  lead 
these  here  boys  astray  that  I've  been  runnin'  round  with. 
They're  mighty  nice  clean  boys,  all  of  'em.  Some  of  'em 
are  mighty  near  ez  pore  ez  whut  I  uster  be;  but  there 
ain't  no  real  harm  in  any  of  'em.  We  git  along  together 
fine  —  me  and  them.    And,  without  no  preachin',  nor 


122  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

nothin'  like  that,  I've  done  my  best  these  weeks  we've 
been  frolickin'  and  projectin'  round  together  to  keep  'em 
frum  growin'  up  to  do  mean  things.  I  use  chawin'  to- 
bacco myself ;  but  I've  told  'em,  I  don't  know  how  many 
times,  that  ef  they  chaw  it'll  stunt  'em  in  their  growth. 
And  I've  got  several  of  'em  that  was  smokin'  cigarettes 
on  the  sly  to  promise  me  they'd  quit.  So  I  don't  figger 
ez  I've  done  them  boys  any  real  harm  by  goin'  round  with 
'em.  And  I  believe  ef  you  was  to  ast  'em  they'd  all  tell 
you  the  same,  suh. 

"  Now  about  them  watermelons :  Sence  this  gentle- 
man has  brung  them  watermelons  up,  I'm  goin'  to  tell 
you-all  the  truth  about  that  too." 

He  cast  a  quick,  furtive  look,  almost  a  guilty  look, 
over  his  shoulder  toward  the  rear  of  the  courtroom  be- 
fore he  went  on : 

"  Them  watermelons  wasn't  really  stole  at  all.  I  seen 
Mister  Dick  Bell  beforehand  and  arranged  with  him  to 
pay  him  in  full  fur  whutever  damage  mout  be  done. 
But,  you  see,  I  knowed  watermelons  tasted  sweeter  to  a 
boy  ef  he  thought  he'd  hooked  'em  out  of  a  patch;  so  I 
never  let  on  to  my  little  pardners  yonder  that  I'd  the 
same  ez  paid  Mister  Bell  in  advance  fur  the  melons  we 
snuck  out  of  his  patch  and  et  in  the  woods.  They've  all 
been  thinkin'  up  till  now  that  we  really  hooked  them 
watermelons.     But  ef  that  was  wrong  I'm  sorry  fur  it. 

"  Mister  Sublette,  you  jest  now  said  that  I  was  frit- 
terin'  away  my  property  on  vain  foolishment.  Them 
was  the  words  you  used  — '  f ritterin' '  and  '  vain  foolish- 
ment.' Mebbe  you're  right,  suh,  about  the  fritterin' 
part;  but  ef  spendin'  money  in  a  certain  way  gives  a  man 
ez  much  pleasure  ez  it's  give  me  these  last  two  months, 
and  ef  the  money  is  his'n  by  rights,  I  figger  it  can't  be 
so  very  foolish ;  though  it  may  'pear  so  to  some. 

"  Excusin'  these  here  clothes  I've  got  on  and  these  here 
boots,  which  ain't  paid  fur  yet,  but  is  charged  up  to  me 
on  Felsburg  Brothers'  books  and  Mister  M.  Biederman's 
books,  I  didn't  spend  only  a  dollar  a  day,  or  mebbe  two 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  123 

dollars,  and  once  three  dollars  in  a  single  day  out  of  whut 
was  comin'  to  me.  The  Judge  here,  he  let  me  have  that 
out  of  his  own  pocket ;  and  I  paid  him  back.  And  that 
was  all  I  did  spend  till  here  three  days  ago  when  that 
there  circus  come  to  town.  I  reckin  I  did  spend  a  right 
smart  then. 

"  My  money  had  come  frum  the  old  country  only  the 
day  before;  so  I  went  to  the  bank  and  they  writ  out  one 
of  them  pieces  of  paper  which  is  called  a  check,  and  I 
signed  it  —  with  my  mark ;  and  they  give  me  the  money 
I  wanted  —  an  even  two  hundred  dollars.  And  part  of 
that  there  money  I  used  to  pay  fur  circus  tickets  fur  all 
the  little  boys  and  little  girls  I  could  find  in  this  town 
that  couldn't  'a'  got  to  the  circus  no  other  way.  Some 
of  'em  are  settin'  back  there  behind  you-all  now  —  some 
of  the  boys,  I  mean ;  I  don't  see  none  of  the  little  girls. 

"  There  was  several  of  'em  told  me  at  the  time  they 
hadn't  never  seen  a  circus  —  not  in  their  whole  lives. 
Fur  that  matter,  I  hadn't,  neither;  but  I  didn't  want  no 
pore  child  in  this  town  to  grow  up  to  be  ez  old  ez  I  am 
without  havin'  been  to  at  least  one  circus.  So  I  taken 
'em  all  in  and  paid  all  the  bills ;  and  when  night  come 
there  wasn't  but  'bout  nine  dollars  left  out  of  the  whole 
two  hundred  that  I'd  started  out  with  in  the  mornin'. 
But  I  don't  begredge  spendin'  it.  It  looked  to  me  like  it 
was  money  well  invested.  They  all  seemed  to  enjoy  it ; 
and  I  know  I  done  so. 

"  There  may  be  bigger  circuses'n  whut  that  one  was ; 
but  I  don't  see  how  a  cir.cus  could  'a'  been  any  better 
than  this  here  one  I'm  tellin'  about,  ef  it  was  ten  times 
ez  big.  I  don't  regret  the  investment  and  I  don't  aim  to 
lie  about  it  now.  Mister  Sublette.  I'd  do  the  same  thing 
over  ag'in  ef  the  chance  should  come,  lawsuit  or  no  law- 
suit. Ef  you  should  win  this  here  case  mebbe  I  wouldn't 
have  no  second  chance. 

"  Ef  some  gentleman  is  app'inted  ez  a  committee  to 
handle  my  money  it's  likely  he  wouldn't  look  at  the  thing 
the  same  way  I  do;  and  it's  Ukely  he  wouldn't  let  me 


124  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

have  so  much  money  all  in  one  lump  to  spend  takin'  a 
passel  of  little  shavers  that  ain't  no  kin  to  me  to  the 
circus  and  to  the  side  show,  besides  lettin'  'em  stay  fur 
the  grand  concert  or  after  show,  and  all.  But  I  done  it 
once ;  and  I've  got  it  to  remember  about  and  think  about 
in  my  own  mind  ez  long  ez  I  live. 

"  I'm  'bout  finished  now.  There's  jest  one  thing  more 
I'd  like  to  say,  and  that  is  this :  Mister  Sublette  he  said 
a  minute  ago  that  I  was  in  my  second  childhood. 
Meanin'  no  offense,  suh,  but  you  was  wrong  there  too. 
The  way  I  look  at  it,  a  man  can't  be  in  his  second  child- 
hood without  he's  had  his  first  childhood ;  and  I  was 
cheated  plum'  out  of  mine.  I'm  more'n  sixty  years  old, 
ez  near  ez  I  kin  figger;  but  I'm  tryin'  to  be  a  boy  before 
it's  too  late." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  looked  round  him. 

"  The  way  I  look  at  it.  Judge  Priest,  suh,  and  you- 
all,  every  man  that  grows  up,  no  matter  how  old  he  may 
git  to  be,  is  entitled  to  'a'  been  a  boy  oncet  in  his  life- 
time.    I  —  I  reckin  that's  all." 

He  sat  down  and  dropped  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  as 
though  ashamed  that  his  temerity  should  have  carried 
him  so  far.  There  was  a  strange  little  hush  filling  the 
courtroom.     It  was  Judge  Priest  who  broke  it. 

"  The  court,"  he  said,  "  has  by  the  words  just  spoken 
by  this  man  been  sufficiently  advised  as  to  the  sanity  of 
the  man  himself.  The  court  cares  to  hear  nothing  more 
from  either  side  on  this  subject.  The  petition  is  dis- 
missed." 

Very  probably  these  last  words  may  have  been  as  so 
much  Greek  to  the  juvenile  members  of  the  audience ; 
possibly,  though,  they  were  made  aware  of  the  meaning 
of  them  by  the  look  upon  the  face  of  Nephew  Percival 
Dwyer  and  the  look  upon  the  face  of  Nephew  Percival 
Dwyer's  attorney.  At  any  rate.  His  Honor  hardly  had 
uttered  the  last  syllable  of  his  decision  before,  from  the 
rear  of  the  courtroom  and  from  the  gallery  above,  there 
arose  a  shrill,  vehement,  sincere  sound  of  yelling  —  ex- 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  125 

ultarit,  triumphant,  and  deafening.  It  continued  for  up- 
ward of  a  minute  before  the  small  disturbers  remembered 
where  they  were  and  reduced  themselves  to  a  state  of 
comparative  quiet. 

For  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  Judge  Priest,  who 
ordinarily  stickled  for  order  and  decorum  in  his  court- 
room, made  no  effort  to  quell  the  outburst  or  to  have  it 
quelled  —  not  even  when  a  considerable  number  of  the 
adults  present  joined  in  it,  having  first  cleared  their 
throats  of  a  slight  huskiness  that  had  come  upon  them, 
severally  and  generally. 

Presently  the  Judge  rapped  for  quiet  —  and  got  it. 
It  was  apparent  that  he  had  more  to  say;  and  all  there 
hearkened  to  hear  what  it  might  be. 

**  I  have  just  this  to  add,"  quoth  His  Honor:  "  It  is 
the  oflficial  judgment  of  this  court  that  the  late  defendant, 
being  entirely  sane,  is  competent  to  manage  his  own 
affairs  after  his  preferences. 

"  And  it  is  the  private  opinion  of  this  court  that  not 
only  is  the  late  defendant  sane  but  that  he  is  the  sanest 
man  in  this  entire  jurisdiction.  Mister  Clerk,  this  court 
stands  adjourned." 

Coming  down  the  three  short  steps  from  the  raised 
platform  of  the  bench,  Judge  Priest  beckoned  to  Sheriff 
Giles  Birdsong,  who,  at  the  tail  of  the  departing  crowd, 
was  shepherding  its  last  exuberant  members  through  the 
doorway. 

"  Giles,"  said  Judge  Priest  in  an  undertone,  when  the 
worthy  sheriff  had  drawn  near,  "  the  circuit  clerk  tells 
me  there's  an  indictment  for  malicious  mischief  ag'in 
this  here  Perce  Dwyer  knockin'  round  amongst  the  rec- 
ords somewheres  —  an  indictment  the  grand  jury  re- 
turned several  sessions  back,  but  which  was  never 
pressed,  owin'  to  the  sudden  departure  frum  our  midst 
of  the  person  in  question. 

'*  I  wonder  ef  it  would  be  too  much  trouble  fur  you  to 
sort  of  drap  a  hint  in  the  ear  of  the  young  man  or  his 
lawyer  that  the  said  indictment  is  apt  to  be  revived,  and 


126  BOYS  WILL  BE  BOYS 

that  the  said  Dwyer  is  liable  to  be  tuck  into  custody  by 
you  and  lodged  in  the  county  jail  sometime  during  the 
ensuin*  forty-eight  hours  —  without  he  should  see  his 
way  clear  durin'  the  meantime  to  get  clean  out  of  this 
city,  county  and  state!     Would  it?  " 

"  Trduble  ?  No,  suh !  It  won't  be  no  trouble  to  me," 
said  Mr.  Birdsong  promptly.  "  Why,  it'll  be  more  of  a 
pleasure,  Judge." 

And  so  it  was. 

Except  for  one  small  added  and  purely  incidental  cir- 
cumstance, our  narrative  is  ended.  That  same  afternoon 
Judge  Priest  sat  on  the  front  porch  of  his  old  white 
house  out  on  Clay  Street,  waiting  for  Jeff  Poindexter  to 
summon  him  to  supper.  Peep  O'Day  opened  the  front 
gate  and  came  up  the  graveled  walk  between  the  twin 
rows  of  silver-leaf  poplars.  The  Judge,  rising  to  greet 
his  visitor,  met  him  at  the  top  step. 

"  Come  in,"  bade  the  Judge  heartily,  "  and  set  down  a 
spell  and  rest  your  face  and  hands." 

"  No,  suh ;  much  obliged,  but  I  ain't  got  only  a  minute 
to  stay,"  said  O'Day.  "  I  jest  come  out  here,  suh,  to 
thank  you  fur  whut  you  done  to-day  on  my  account  in 
the  big  courthouse,  and  —  and  to  make  you  a  little  kind 
of  a  present." 

"  It's  all  right  to  thank  me,"  said  Judge  Priest ;  "  but 
I  couldn't  accept  any  reward  fur  renderin'  a  decision  in 
accordance  with  the  plain  facts." 

"  'Tain't  no  gift  of  money,  or  nothin'  like  that,"  O'Day 
hastened  to  explain.  "  Really,  suh,  it  don't  amount  to 
nothin'  at  all,  scursely.  But  a  little  while  ago  I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  Mr.  B.  Weil  &  Son's  store,  doin'  a  Uttle 
tradin',  and  I  run  acrost  a  new  kind  of  knickknack,  which 
it  seemed  like  to  me  it  was  about  the  best  thing  I  ever 
tasted  in  my  whole  life.  So,  on  the  chancet,  suh,  that 
you  might  have  a  sweet  tooth,  too,  I  taken  the  liberty  of 
bringin'  you  a  sack  of  'em  and  —  and  —  and  here  they 
are,  suh;  three  flavors  —  strawberry,  lemon  and  vanilly." 

Suddenly  overcome  with  confusion,   he   dislodged  a 


IRVIN  S.  COBB  127 

large-sized  paper  bag  from  his  side  coat  pocket  and 
thrust  it  into  Judge  Priest's  hands;  then,  backing  away, 
he  turned  and  ckimped  down  the  graveled  path  in  great 
and  embarrassed  haste. 

Judge  Priest  opened  the  bag  and  peered  down  into  it. 

It  contained  a  sticky  sugary  dozen  of  flattened  confec- 
tions, each  molded  round  a  short  length  of  wooden  splin- 
ter. These  sirupy  articles,  which  have  since  come  into 
quite  general  use,  are  known,  I  believe,  as  all-day  suckers. 

When  Judge  Priest  looked  up  again,  Peep  O'Day  was 
outside  the  gate,  clumping  down  the  uneven  sidewalk  of 
Clay  Street  with  long  strides  of  his  booted  legs.  Half  a 
dozen  small  boys,  who,  it  was  evident,  had  remained  hid- 
den during  the  ceremony  of  presentation,  now  mysteri- 
ously appeared  and  were  accompanying  the  departing 
donor,  half  trotting  to  keep  up  with  him. 


LAUGHTER ' 

By  CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 

From  Harper's  Magasine 

AS  Suvaroff  neared  his  lodgings,  he  began  to  wonder 
whether  the  Italian  who  had  the  room  next  him 
would  continue  to  grind  out  tunes  all  night  upon  his 
accordion.  The  thought  made  Suvaroff  shudder.  What 
in  Heaven's  name  possessed  people  to  grind  out  tunes, 
Suvaroff  found  himself  inquiring,  unless  one  earned 
one's  living  that  way?  Certainly  this  weather-beaten 
Italian  was  no  musician ;  he  smelled  too  strongly  of 
fish  for  any  one  to  mistake  his  occupation.  He  tor- 
tured melody  from  choice,  blandly,  for  the  pure  enjoy- 
ment of  the  thing.  With  Suvaroff  it  was  different;  if 
he  did  not  play,  he  did  not  eat. 

Suvaroff's  head  had  ached  all  day.  The  cafe  where  he 
scraped  his  violin  from  early  afternoon  until  midnight 
had  never  seemed  so  stuffy,  so  tawdry,  so  impossible ! 
All  day  he  had  sat  and  played  and  played,  while  people 
ate  and  chattered  and  danced.  No,  that  did  not  describe 
what  people  did ;  they  gorged  and  shrieked  and  gyrated 
like  decapitated  fowls,  accomplishing  everything  with  a 
furious  energy,  primitive,  abandoned,  di.sgusting.  He 
wondered  if  he  would  ever  again  see  people  eat  quietly 
and  simply,  like  normal  human  beings. 

If  only  the  Italian  would  go  away,  or  decide  to  sleep, 
or  die !  Yes,  Suvaroff  would  have  been  glad  to  have 
found  his  neighbor  quite  dead  —  anything  to  still  that 
terrible  accordion,  which  had  been  pumping  out  tunes 

1  Copyright,  191 7,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.  Copyright,  1918,  by- 
Charles  Caldwell  Dobie. 

128 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  129 

for  over  a  week  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night !  The 
music  did  not  have  the  virtue  of  an  attempt  at  gaiety; 
instead  it  droned  out  prolonged  wails,  melancholy  and  in- 
describably discordant. 

The  night  was  damp,  a  typical  San  Francisco  midsum- 
mer night.  A  drizzling  fog  had  swept  in  from  the  ocean 
and  fell  refreshingly  on  the  gray  city.  But  the  keenness 
of  the  air  irritated  Suvaroff's  headache  instead  of  sooth- 
ing it;  he  felt  the  wind  upon  his  temples  as  one  feels 
the  cool  cut  of  a  knife.  In  short,  everything  irritated 
Suvaroflf  —  his  profession,  the  cafe  where  he  fiddled,  the 
strident  streets  of  the  city,  the  evening  mist,  the  Hotel 
des  Alpes  Maritimes,  where  he  lodged,  and  the  Italian 
fisherman  and  his  doleful  accordion. 

Turning  off  Kearny  Street  into  Broadway,  he  had 
half  a  notion  not  to  go  home,  but  his  dissatisfaction  was 
so  inclusive  that  home  seemed,  at  once,  quite  as  good 
and  as  hopeless  a  place  to  go  as  any  other.  So  he 
pushed  open  the  door  of  his  lodging-house  and  stamped 
rather  heavily  up-stairs. 

Although  midnight,  the  first  sound  which  greeted 
Suvaroff  was  the  wheezing  of  the  Italian's  accordion. 

"  Now,"  muttered  Suvaroff,  "  I  shall  suffer  in  silence 
no  longer.  Nobody  in  this  city,  much  less  in  these 
wretched  lodgings,  has  an  ear  for  anything  but  the  clink 
of  money  and  the  shrill  laughter  of  women.  If  fifty 
men  were  to  file  saws  in  front  of  the  entrance  of  any 
one  of  these  rooms,  there  would  be  not  the  slightest 
concern.  Every  one  would  go  on  sleeping  as  if  they  had 
nothing  more  weighty  on  their  conscience  than  the  theft 
of  a  kiss  from  a  pretty  girl." 

He  tossed  his  hat  on  the  bed  and  made  for  the  Italian's 
door.  He  did  not  wait  to  knock,  but  broke  in  noisily. 
The  accordion  stopped  with  a  prolonged  wail ;  its  owner 
rose,  visibly  frightened. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Italian,  "it  is  you!  I  am  glad  of 
that.     See,  I  have  not  left  the  house  for  three  days." 

There  was  a  genial  simplicity  about  the  man ;  Suvaroff 


I30  LAUGHTER 

felt  overcome  with  confusion.  "What  is  the  matter? 
Are  you  ill  ?  "  he  stammered,  closing  the  door. 

"  No.  I  am  afraid  to  go  out.  There  is  somebody 
waiting  for  me.  Tell  me,  did  you  see  a  cripple  standing 
on  the  corner,  near  BoUo's  Wine  Shop,  as  you  came 
in?" 

Suvaroflf  reflected.  "  Well,  not  a  cripple,  exactly. 
But  I  saw  a  hunchback  with  —  with  — " 

"  Yes !  yes !  "  cried  the  other,  excitedly.  "  A  hunch- 
back with  a  handsome  face !  That  is  he !  I  am  afraid 
of  him.     For  three  days  he  has  sat  there,  waiting !  " 

"  For  you  ?  How  absurd !  Why  should  any  one  do 
such  a  ridiculous  thing?  " 

The  Italian  slipped  his  hands  from  the  accordion  and 
laid  it  aside.  "  Nobody  but  one  who  is  mad  would  do 
it,  but  he  is  mad.     There  is  no  doubt  about  that !  " 

Suvaroff  began  to  feel  irritated.  "  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about?  Have  you  lost  your  senses?  If  he  is  wait- 
ing for  you,  why  do  you  not  go  out  and  send  him  away? 
Go  out  and  pay  him  what  you  owe  him." 

The  Italian  rose  and  began  to  shudder.  "  I  owe  him 
nothing.     He  is  waiting  for  me  —  to  kill  me!" 

"  Nonsense !  "  cried  Suvaroff.     "  What  is  his  reason  ?  " 

"  He  is  waiting  to  kill  me  because  I  laughed  at  him." 

"  That  is  ridiculous  !  "  said  Suvaroff. 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  true,"  replied  the  Italian.  "  He 
kills  every  one  who  laughs  at  him.  Three  days  ago  I 
laughed  at  him.  But  I  ran  away.  He  followed  me. 
He  does  not  know  where  I  lodge,  but  he  has  wit  enough 
to  understand  that  if  he  waits  long  enough  he  will  find 
me  out.  In  Heaven's  name,  my  friend,  can  you  not  help 
me?  See,  I  am  a  simple  soul.  I  cannot  think  quickly. 
I  have  prayed  to  the  Virgin,  but  it  is  no  use.  Tell  me, 
what  can  I  do  to  escape  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  not  see  a  policeman  ?  " 

The  Italian  let  his  hands  fall  hopelessly.  "  A  police- 
man ?  What  good  would  that  do  ?  Even  you  do  not 
believe  me ! " 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  131 

A  chill  seized  Suvaroff.  He  began  to  shake,  and  in 
the  next  instant  a  fever  burned  his  cheeks.  His  head 
was  full  of  little  darting  pains.  He  turned  away  from 
the  Italian,  impatiently.  "  You  must  be  a  pretty  sort  of 
a  man  to  let  a  little  hunchback  frighten  you!  Good 
night." 

And  with  that  Suvaroff  went  out,  slamming  the  door. 

When  Suvaroff  got  to  his  room  he  felt  dizzy.  He 
threw  himself  on  the  bed  and  lay  for  some  time  in  a 
stupor.  When  he  came  to  his  senses  again  the  first 
sound  to  greet  him  was  the  wail  of  his  neighbor's  ac- 
cordion. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  he  muttered.  "Here  I  go 
bursting  into  this  Italian's  room  for  the  purpose  of  ask- 
ing him  to  quit  his  abominable  noise,  and  I  listen  like  a 
dumb  sheep  to  his  bleatings,  and  so  forget  my  errand ! " 

The  noise  continued,  grew  more  insistent,  became  un- 
bearable. Suvaroff  covered  his  ears  with  a  comforter. 
His  head  was  throbbing  so  violently  that  even  the  tick- 
ing of  a  clock  upon  the  table  by  his  bed  cut  his  senses 
like  a  two-edged  sword.  He  rose,  stumbling  about  with 
a  feeling  of  indescribable  weakness.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? Why  did  he  feel  so  ill?  His  eyes  burned,  his  legs 
seemed  weighted,  his  throat  was  so  dry  that  there  was 
no  comfort  when  he  swallowed.  All  this  he  could  have 
stood  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  fiendish  noise  which,  he 
began  to  feel,  was  being  played  merely  for  his  torture. 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  stumbled  down-stairs,  out  into 
the  night.  Crossing  the  street,  he  went  at  once  to  Bollo's 
Wine  Shop.  The  hunchback  was  sitting  on  a  garbage- 
can,  almost  at  the  entrance.  At  the  sight  of  this  mis- 
shapen figure,  the  irritating  memory  of  the  Italian  and 
his  impossible  music  recurred  to  Suvaroff.  A  sudden 
sinister  cruelty  came  over  him ;  he  felt  a  wanton  ruthless- 
ness  that  the  sight  of  ugliness  sometimes  engenders  in 
natures  sensitive  to  beauty.  He  went  up  to  the  hunch- 
back and  looked  searchingly  into  the  man's  face.  It  was 
a  strangely  handsome  face,  and  its  incongruity  struck 


132  LAUGHTER 

Suvaroff.  Had  Nature  been  weary,  or  merely  in  a  sa- 
tirical mood,  when  she  fashioned  such  a  thing  of  horror? 

—  for  Suvaroff  found  that  the  handsome  face  seemed 
even  more  horrible  than  the  twisted  body,  so  sharp  and 
violent  was  the  contrast. 

The  hunchback  returned  Suvaroflf's  stare  with  almost 
insulting  indifference,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
look  that  quickened  the  beating  of  Suvaroflf's  heart. 

"  You  are  waiting  here,"  began  Suvaroflf,  "  for  an 
Italian  who  lodges  across  the  street.  Would  you  like  me 
to  tell  you  where  he  may  be  found  ?  " 

The  hunchback  shrugged.  "  It  does  not  matter  in  the 
slightest,  one  way  or  another.  If  you  tell  me  where  he 
lodges,  the  inevitable  will  happen  more  quickly  than  if 
I  sat  and  waited  for  the  rat  to  come  out  of  his  hole. 
Waiting  has  its  own  peculiar  interest.  If  you  have  ever 
waited,  as  I  wait  now,  you  know  the  joy  that  a  cat  feels 

—  expectation  is  two-thirds  of  any  game." 

Suvarofif  shuddered.  He  had  an  impulse  to  walk  away, 
but  the  eyes  of  the  other  burned  with  a  strange  fascina- 
tion. 

"  Nevertheless,'-  said  Suvarofif,  '"  I  shall  tell  — " 

The  hunchback  waved  him  to  silence.  "  Do  whatever 
you  wish,  my  friend,  but  remember,  if  you  do  tell  me  this 
thing,  you  and  I  will  be  forever  bound  by  a  tie  that  it 
will  be  impossible  to  break.  With  me  it  does  not  matter, 
but  you  are  a  young  man,  and  all  your  life  you  will  drag 
a  secret  about  like  a  dead  thing  chained  to  your  wrist. 
I  am  Flavio  Minetti,  and  I  kill  every  one  who  laughs  at 
me !  This  Italian  of  whom  you  speak  has  laughed  at  me. 
I  may  wait  a  week  —  a  month.  It  will  be  the  same. 
No  one  has  yet  escaped  me." 

An  exquisite  fear  began  to  move  Suvarofif.  "  Never- 
theless," he  repeated  again,  "  I  shall  tell  you  where  he 
lodges.  You  will  find  him  upon  the  third  landing  of  the 
Hotel  des  Alpes  Maritimes.  There  are  no  numbers  on 
the  doors,  but  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  mistake  his 
room.     All  day  and  night  he  sits  playing  an  accordion." 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  133 

Flavio    Minetti    took    a    cigarette    from    his    pocket. 
"  Remember,  my  young  friend,  I  gave  you  fair  warning." 
*'  I  shall  not  forget,"  replied  Suvaroflf. 

Suvarofif  climbed  back  to  his  room.  He  sat  upon  his 
bed,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands.  The  sound  of  the 
accordion  seemed  gruesome  now. 

Presently  he  heard  a  step  on  the  landing.  His  heart 
stood  still.  Sounds  drifted  down  the  passageway.  The 
noise  was  not  heavy  and  clattering,  but  it  had  a  pattering 
quality,  like  a  bird  upon  a  roof.  Above  the  wailing  of 
the  music,  Suvaroflf  heard  a  door  opened  —  slowly,  cau- 
tiously. There  followed  a  moment  of  silence;  Suvarofif 
was  frightened.  But  almost  immediately  the  playing  be- 
gan again. 

"  Now,"  thought  SuvarofT,  "  why  is  the  Italian  not 
frightened?  The  door  has  been  opened  and  he  goes  on 
playing,  undisturbed.  ...  It  must  be  that  he  is  sitting 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  If  this  is  so,  God  help  him! 
.  .  .  Well,  why  need  I  worry?  What  is  it  to  me?  It 
is  not  my  fault  if  a  fool  like  that  sits  with  his  door  un- 
locked and  his  face  turned  from  the  face  of  danger." 

And,  curiously,  Suvaroflf's  thoughts  wandered  to  other 
things,  and  a  picture  of  his  native  country  flashed  over 
him  —  Little  Russia  in  the  languid  embrace  of  summer 
—  green  and  blue  and  golden.  The  soft  notes  of  the 
balalaika  at  twilight  came  to  him,  and  the  dim  shapes 
of  dancing  peasants,  whirling  like  aspen-leaves  in  a  fresh 
breeze.  He  remembered  the  noonday  laughter  of  sky- 
larks ;  the  pear-trees  bending  patiently  beneath  their  har- 
vest ;  the  placid  river  winding  its  willow-hedged  way, 
cutting  the  plain  like  a  thin  silver  knife. 

Now,  suddenly,  it  came  upon  him  that  the  music  in 
the  next  room  had  stopped.  He  waited.  There  was  not 
a  sound !  .  .  .  After  a  time  the  door  banged  sharply. 
The  pattering  began  again,  and  died  away.  But  still 
there  was  no  music !  .  .  . 

Suvaroflf  rose  and  began  to  strip  oflF  his  clothes.     His 


134  LAUGHTER 

teeth  were  chattering.  "  Well,  at  last,"  he  muttered,  "  I 
shall  have  some  peace !  "  He  threw  himself  on  the  bed, 
drawing  the  coverings  up  over  his  head.  .  .  .  Presently 
a  thud  shook  the  house.  "  He  has  slipped  from  his 
seat,"  said  Suvaroff  aloud.  "  It  is  all  over ! "  And  he 
drew  the  bedclothes  higher  and  went  to  sleep. 

Next  morning,  Suvaroff  felt  better.  To  be  sure,  he 
was  weak,  but  he  rose  and  dressed. 

"  What  strange  dreams  people  have  when  they  are  in 
a  fever ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  put  on  his  hat.  Never- 
theless, as  he  left  the  house,  he  did  not  so  much  as 
glance  at  the  Italian's  door. 

It  was  a  pleasant  morning,  the  mist  had  lifted  and  the 
sky  was  a  freshly  washed  blue.  Suvaroff  walked  down 
Kearny  Street,  and  past  Portsmouth  Square.  At  this 
hour  the  little  park  was  cleared  of  its  human  wreckage, 
and  dowdy  sparrows  hopped  unafraid  upon  the  de- 
serted benches.  A  Chinese  woman  and  her  child 
romped  upon  the  green;  a  weather-beaten  peddler 
stooped  to  the  fountain  and  drank ;  the  three  poplar- 
trees  about  the  Stevenson  monument  trembled  to  silver 
in  the  frank  sunshine.  Suvaroff  could  not  remember 
when  the  city  had  appeared  so  fresh  and  innocent.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  the  gray,  cold  drizzle  of  the  night 
had  washed  away  even  the  sins  of  the  wine-red  town. 
But  an  indefinite  disquiet  rippled  the  surface  of  his  con- 
tent. His  peace  was  filled  with  a  vague  suggestion  of 
sinister  things  to  follow,  like  the  dead  calm  of  this  very 
morning,  which  so  skilfully  bound  up  the  night  wind  in 
its  cool,  placid  air.  He  would  have  liked  to  linger  a 
moment  in  the  park,  but  he  passed  quickly  by  and  went 
into  a  little  chop-house  for  his  morning  meal. 

As  he  dawdled  over  his  cup  of  muddy  coffee  he  had 
a  curious  sense  that  his  mind  was  intent  on  keeping  at 
bay  some  half-formulated  fear.  He  felt  pursued,  as  by 
an  indistinct  dream.  Yet  he  was  cunning  enough  to 
pretend  that  this  something  was  too  illusive  to  capture 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  135 

outright,  so  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  all  manner  of  re- 
mote things.  But  there  are  times  when  it  is  almost  as 
difficult  to  deceive  oneself  as  to  cheat  others.  In  the 
midst  of  his  thoughts  he  suddenly  realized  that  under  the 
stimulating  influence  of  a  second  cup  of  cofifee  he  was 
feeling  quite  himself  again. 

"  That  is  because  I  got  such  a  good  night's  sleep,"  he 
muttered.  "  For  over  a  week  this  Italian  and  his 
wretched  accordion — "  He  halted  his  thoughts  ab- 
ruptly. "What  am  I  thinking  about?"  he  demanded. 
Then  he  rose,  paid  his  bill,  and  departed. 

He  turned  back  to'  his  lodgings.  At  Hollo's  Wine 
Shop  he  hesitated.  A  knot  of  people  stood  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Hotel  des  Alpes  Maritimes,  and  a  curious 
wagon  was  drawn  up  to  the  curb. 

He  stopped  a  child.  "  What  is  the  trouble  ?  "  he  in- 
quired. 

The  girl  raised  a  pair  of  mournful  eyes  to  him.  "  A 
man  has  been  killed !  "  she  answered. 

Suvaroff  turned  quickly  and  walked  in  another  direc- 
tion. He  went  to  the  cafe  where  he  fiddled.  At  this 
hour  it  was  like  an  empty  cavern.  A  smell  of  stale  beer 
and  tobacco  smoke  pervaded  the  imprisoned  air.  He 
sat  down  upon  the  deserted  platform  and  pretended 
to  practise.  He  played  erratically,  feverishly.  The 
waiters,  moving  about  their  morning  preparations  with 
an  almost  uncanny  quiet,  listened  attentively.  Finally 
one  of  them  stopped  before  him. 

"  What  has  come  over  you,  Suvaroff? "  questioned  the 
man.     "  You  are  making  our  flesh  creep !  " 

"  Oh,  pardon  me ! "  cried  Suvaroff.  "  I  shall  not 
trouble  you  further !  " 

And  with  that  he  packed  up  his  violin  and  left.  He 
did  not  go  back  to  the  cafe,  even  at  the  appointed  hour. 
Instead,  he  wandered  aimlessly  about.  All  day  he 
tramped  the  streets.  He  listened  to  street-fakirs,  peered 
into  shop-windows,  threw  himself  upon  the  grass  of  the 
public  squares  and  stared  up  at  the  blue  sky.     He  had 


136  LAUGHTER 

very  little  personal  consciousness ;  he  seemed  to  have 
lost  track  of  himself.  He  had  an  absurd  feeling  that  he 
had  come  away  from  somewhere  and  left  behind  a  vital 
part  of  his  being. 

"  Suvaroff !  Suvaroflf !  "  he  would  repeat  over  and 
over  to  himself,  as  if  trying  to  recall  the  memory  of  some 
one  whose  precise  outline  had  escaped  him. 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  mirror  of  a 
shop-window.  He  went  closer,  staring  for  some  mo- 
ments at  the  face  opposite  him.  There  followed  an  in- 
finitesimal fraction  of  time  when  his  spirit  deserted  him 
as  completely  as  if  he  were  dead.  When  he  recovered 
himself  he  had  a  sense  that  he  was  staring  at  the  re- 
jection of  a  stranger.  He  moved  away,  puzzled.  Was 
he  going  mad?  Then,  suddenly,  everything  grew  quite 
clear.  He  remembered  the  Italian,  the  accordion,  the 
hunchback.  Characters,  circumstances,  sequences  —  all 
stood  out  as  sharply  as  the  sky-line  of  a  city  in  the  glow 
of  sunset.  .  .  .  He  put  his  fingers  to  his  pulse.  Every- 
thing seemed  normal ;  his  skin  was  moist  and  cool.  Yet 
last  night  he  had  been  very  ill.  That  was  it !  Last  night 
he  had  been  ill ! 

"  What  strange  dreams  people  have  when  they  are  in 
a  fever !  "  he  exclaimed  for  the  second  time  that  day. 
He  decided  to  go  home.  "  I  wonder,  though,"  thought 
he,  "  whether  the  Italian  is  still  playing  that  awful  in- 
strument ?  "  Curiously  enough,  the  idea  did  not  disturb 
him  in  the  least.  "  I  shall  teach  him  a  Russian  tune  or 
two !  "  he  decided,  cheerfully.  "  Then,  maybe  his  playing 
will  be  endurable." 

WherTTie  came  again  to  his  lodgings  he  was  surprised 
to  find  a  knot  of  curious  people  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  and  another  before  the  entrance.  He  went 
up  the  stairs.     His  landlady  came  to  meet  him. 

"  Mr.  Suvaroff,"  she  began  at  once,  "  have  you  not 
heard  what  has  happened?  The  man  in  the  next  room 
to  you  was  found  this  morning  —  dead!" 

He  did  not  pretend -to  be  surprised.     "  Well,"  he  an- 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  137 

nounced,  brutally,  "  at  least  we  shall  have  no  more  of 
his  dreadful  music  !     How  did  he  kill  himself  ?  "  ' 

The  woman  gave  way  to  his  advance  with  a  movement 
of  fluttering  confusion.  "  The  knife  was  in  his  side," 
she  answered.     *'  In  his  side  —  toward  the  back." 

"  Ah,  then  he  was  murdered !  " 

"  Yes." 

He  was  mounting  the  second  flight  of  stairs  when  his 
landlady  again  halted  him.  "  Mr.  Suvarofif,"  she  ven- 
tured, "  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry !  But  his  mother 
came  early  this  morning.  All  day  she  has  sat  in  your 
room,  weeping.  I  cannot  persuade  her  to  go  away. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

Suvarofif  glared  at  her  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  noth- 
ing !  "  he  announced,  as  he  passed  on,  shrugging. 

The  door  of  his  room  was  open ;  he  went  in.  A 
gnarled  old  woman  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed;  a 
female  consoler  was  on  either  side.  At  the  sight  of 
SuvarofT  the  mourner  rose  and  stood  trembling  before 
him,  rolling  a  gaudy  handkerchief  into  a  moist  bundle. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Suvarofl^,  kindly,  "  do  not 
stand ;  sit  down." 

"  Kind  gentleman !  "  the  old  woman  began.  "  Kind 
gentleman  — " 

She  got  no  further  because  of  her  tears.  The  other 
women  rose  and  sat  her  down  again.  She  began  to 
moan.  Suvarofif,  awkward  and  disturbed,  stood  as  men 
do  in  such  situations. 

Fipally  the  old  woman  found  her  voice.  "  Kind  gen- 
tleman," she  said,  "  I  am  a  poor  old  woman,  and  my 
son  —  Ah !  I  was  washing  his  socks  when  they  came 
after  me.  .  .  .  You  see  what  has  happened !  He  was  a 
good  son.  Once  a  week  he  came  to  me  and  brought  me 
five  dollars.  Now  —  What  am  I  to  do,  my  kind  gen- 
tleman ? " 

Suvarofif  said  nothing. 

She  swayed  back  and  forth,  and  spoke  again.  "  Only 
last  week  he  said :     *  There  is  a  man  who  lodges  ne.xt 


138  LAUGHTER 

me  who  plays  music'  Yes,  my  son  was  fond  of  you 
because  of  that.  He  said :  *  I  have  seen  him  only  once. 
He  plays  music  all  day  and  night,  so  that  he  may  have 
money  enough  to  live  on.  When  I  hear  him  coming  up 
the  stairs  I  take  down  my  accordion  and  begin  to  play. 
All  day  and  night  he  plays  for  others.  So  I  think,  Now 
it  will  be  nice  to  give  him  some  pleasure.  So  I  take 
down  my  accordion  and  play  for  him!'  .  .  .  Yes,  yes! 
He  was  like  that  all  his  life.  He  was  a  good  son.  Now 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

A  shudder  passed  over  SuvarofT.  There  was  a  soft 
tap  upon  the  door.  The  three  women  and  Suvaroff 
looked  up.     Flavio  Minetti  stood  in  the  doorway. 

The  three  women  gave  the  hunchback  swift,  inclusive 
glances,  such  as  women  always  use  when  they  measure  a 
newcomer,  and  speedily  dropped  their  eyes.  Suvaroff 
stared  silently  at  the  warped  figure.  Minetti  leaned 
against  the  door ;  his  smile  was  at  once  both  cruel  and 
curiously  touching.  At  length  Minetti  spoke.  The 
sound  of  his  voice  provoked  a  sort  of  terror  in  the  breast 
of  Suvaroff. 

"  I  have  just  heard,"  he  said,  benevolently,  "  from  the 
proprietor  of  the  wine-shop  across  the  way,  that  your 
neighbor  has  been  murdered.  The  landlady  tells  me 
that  his  mother  is  here." 

The  old  woman  roused  herself,  "Yes  —  you  can  see 
for  yourself  that  I  am  here.  I  am  a  poor  old  woman, 
and  my  son  —    Ah !  I  was  washing  his  socks  when  — " 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  interrupted  the  hunchback,  advancing 
into  the  room.  "  You  are  a  poor  old  woman !  Let  me 
give  you  some  money  in  all  charity." 

He  threw  gold  into  her  lap.  She  began  to  tremble. 
Suvaroff  saw  her  hands  greedily  close  over  the  coins, 
and  the  sight  sickened  him. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  "  Suvaroff  demanded  of  Min- 
etti.    "  Go  away !     You  are  not  wanted  here  !  " 

The  three  women  rose.  The  old  woman  began  to 
mumble  a  blessing.     She  even  put  up  her  hand  in  the 


CHARLES  CALDWELiL  DOBIE  139 

fashion  of  bestowing  a  benediction.  Suvaroff  fancied 
that  he  saw  Minetti  wince. 

"He  was  a  good  son,"  the  old  woman  began  to  mutter 
as  they  led  her  out.  At  the  door  she  looked  back. 
Suvaroff  turned  away.  "  Once  a  week  he  came  to  me 
and  brought  me  five  dollars,"  she  said,  quite  calmly. 
"  He  was  a  good  son.  He  even  played  his  music  to  give 
pleasure  to  others.  Yes,  yes !  He  was  like  that  all  his 
Hfe."  .  .  . 

When  the  women  were  gone,  Suvaroff  felt  the  hunch- 
back's hand  upon  his.  Suvaroff  turned  a  face  of  dry- 
eyed  hopelessness  toward  his  tormentor. 

"  Did  you  not  sleep  peacefully  last  night,  my  friend?  " 
Minetti  inquired,  mockingly. 

"  After  the  thud  I  knew  nothing,"  replied  Suvaroff. 

"The  thud?" 

"  He  fell  from  his  chair." 

"  Of  course.     That  was  to  be  expected.    Just  so." 

"  You  see  for  yourself  what  you  have  done  ?  Fancy, 
this  man  has  a  mother !  " 

*'  See,  it  is  just  as  I  said.  Already  you  are  dragging 
this  dead'thing  about,  chained  to  your  wrist.  Come,  for- 
get it.     I  should  have  killed  him,  anyway." 

"  That  is  not  the  point.  The  point  is  —  My  God ! 
Tell  me,  in  what  fashion  do  these  people  laugh  at  you? 
Tell  me  how  it  is  done." 

"  Laughter  cannot  be  taught,  my  friend." 

"  Then  Heaven  help  me !  for  I  should  like  to  laugh 
at  you.     If  I  could  but  laugh  at  you,  all  would  be  over." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  hunchback.     "  I  see." 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Minetti  came  to  Suvaroff  one 
evening  and  said,  not  unkindly :  "  Why  don't  you  leave? 
You  are  killing  yourself.  Go  away  —  miles  away.  It 
would  have  happened,  anyway." 

Suvaroff  was  lying  upon  his  bed.  His  face  was  turned 
toward  the  wall.     He  did  not  trouble  to  look  at  Minetti. 

"  I  cannot  leave.     You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 


I40  LAUGHTER 

When  I  am  absent  from  this  room  I  am  in  a  fever  until 
I  get  back  to  it  again.  I  lie  here  and  close  my  eyes  and 
think.  .  .  .  Whenever  a  thud  shakes  the  house  I  leap  up, 
trembling.  I  have  not  worked  for  five  days.  They  have 
given  up  sending  for  me  from  the  cafe.  Yesterday  his 
mother  came  and  sat  with  me.  She  drove  me  mad.  But 
I  sat  and  listened  to  her.  '  Yes,  he  was  a  good  son ! ' 
She  repeats  this  by  the  hour,  and  rolls  and  unrolls  her 
handkerchief.  ...  It  is  bad  enough  in  the  daytime.  But 
at  night  —  God  !  If  only  the  music  would  play  again  ! 
I  cannot  endure  such  silence." 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow.  Minetti  shrugged 
and  left. 

In  about  an  hour  Suvaroff  rose  and  went  out.  He 
found  a  squalid  wine-shop  in  the  quarter  just  below  the 
Barbary  Coast.  He  went  in  and  sat  alone  at  a  table. 
The  floors  had  not  been  freshly  sanded  for  weeks;  a 
dank  mildew  covered  the  green  wall-paper.  He  called 
for  brandy,  and  a  fat,  greasy-haired  man  placed  a  bottle 
of  villainous  stuff  before  him.  Suvaroft'  poured  out  a 
drink  and  swallowed  it  greedily.  He  drank  another 
and  another.  The  room  began  to  fill.  The  lights  were 
dim,  and  the  arrival  and  departure  of  patrons  threw  an 
endless  procession  of  grotescjue  silhouettes  upon  the  walls. 
Suvaroff  was  fascinated  by  these  dancing  shadows. 
They  seemed  familiar  and  friendly.  He  sat  sipping 
his  brandy,  now,  with  a  quieter,  more  leisurely  air.  The 
shadows  were  indescribably  fascinating;  they  were  so 
horrible  and  amusing!  He  began  to  wonder  whether 
their  antics  would  move  him  to  laughter  if  he  sat  and 
drank  long  enough.  He  had  a  feeling  that  laughter  and 
sleep  went  hand  in  hand.  If  he  could  but  laugh  again  he 
was  quite  sure  that  he  would  fall  asleep.  But  he  dis- 
covered a  truth  while  he  sat  there.  Amusement  and 
laughter  were  often  strangers.  He  had  known  this  all 
his  life,  of  course,  but  he  had  never  thought  of  it.  Once, 
when  he  was  a  child,  an  old  man  had  fallen  in  the  road 
before  him,  in  a  fit.     Suvaroft'  had  stood  rooted  to  the 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  141 

spot  with  amusement,  but  he  had  not  laughed.  Yet  the 
man  had  gone  through  the  contortions  of  a  clown.  .  .  . 
Well,  then  he  was  not  to  be  moved  to  laughter,  after  all. 
He  wearily  put  the  cork  back  in  the  bottle  of  brandy. 
The  fat  bartender  came  forward.  Suvaroff  paid  him 
and  departed. 

He  went  to  the  wine-shop  the  next  night  —  and  the 
next.  He  began  to  have  a  hope  that  if  he  persisted  he 
would  discover  a  shadow  grotesque  enough  to  make  him 
laugh.  He  sat  for  hours,  drinking  abominable  brandy. 
The  patrons  of  the  shop  did  not  interest  him. 
They  were  squalid,  dirty,  uninteresting.  But  their 
shadows  were  things  of  wonder.  How  was  it  possible 
for  such  drab  people  to  have  even  interesting  shadows? 
And  why  were  these  shadows  so  familiar?  Suvaroff 
recognized  each  in  turn,  as  if  it  were  an  old  friend  that 
he  remembered  but  could  not  name.  After  the  second 
night  he  came  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

"  They  are  not  old  friends  at  all,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  They  are  not  even  the  shadows  of  these  people  who 
come  here.  They  are  merely  the  silhouettes  of  my  own 
thoughts.  ...  If  I  could  but  draw  my  thoughts,  they 
would  be  as  black  and  as  fantastic." 

But  at  another  time  he  dismissed  this  theory. 

"  No,"  he  muttered,  "  they  are  not  the  shadows  of  my 
thoughts  at  all.  They  are  the  souls  of  these  men.  They 
are  the  twisted,  dark,  horrible  souls  of  these  men,  that 
cannot  crawl  out  except  at  nightfall !  They  are  the  souls 
of  these  men  seeking  to  escape,  like  dogs  chained  to  their 
kennels!  ...  I  wonder  if  the  Italian  had  such  a 
soul?  ..." 

He  rose  suddenly,  "  I  am  wasting  my  time  here,"  he 
said,  almost  aloud.  "One 'may  learn  to  laugh  at  a 
shadow.  One  may  even  learn  to  laugh  at  the  picture  of 
one's  thoughts.  But  to  laugh  at  a  soul  —  No !  A 
man's  soul  is  too  dreadful  a  thing  to  laugh  at."  He 
staggered  out  into  the  night. 

On  his  way  home  he  went  into  a  pawn-shop  and  bought 


142  LAUGHTER 

a  pistol.  He  was  in  a  fever  to  get  back  to  his  lodgings. 
He  found  Minetti  waiting  for  him.  He  tried  to  conceal 
the  pistol,  but  he  knew  that  Minetti  had  seen  it.  Minetti 
was  as  pleasant  as  one  could  imagine.  He  told  the  most 
droll  stories  of  his  life  in  London.  It  appeared  that  he 
had  lived  there  in  a  hotbed  of  exiled  radicals ;  but  he, 
himself,  seemed  to  have  no  convictions.  Everything  he 
described  was  touched  with  a  certain  ironic  humor. 
When  he  rose  to  go  he  said,  quite  simply : 

"  How  are  things  ?     Do  you  sleep  nights  now  ?  " 

"  No.     I  never  expect  to  sleep  again." 

Minetti  made  no  comment.  "  I  see  you  have  bought 
a  pistol,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes,"  repHed  Suvaroff. 

"  You  have  wasted  your  money,  my  young  friend," 
declared  the  hunchback.     "  You  will  never  use  it." 

With  that  Minetti  left  the  room.  SuvarofT  laid  the 
pistol  on  the  table  and  threw  himself  upon  the  bed.  He 
lay  there  without  moving  until  morning.  .  .  .  Toward 
six  o'clock  he  rose.  He  went  over  to  the  table  and  de- 
liberately put  the  pistol  to  his  temple.  The  coldness  of 
the  muzzle  sent  a  tremor  through  him.  .  .  .  He  put  down 
the  weapon  in  disgust. 

Suvaroflf  stayed  away  from  the  wine-shop  for  two 
nights,  but  finally  the  memory  of  its  fascinating  shadows 
lured  him  back.  The  fat  bartender  saw  him  enter,  and 
came  forward  with  a  bottle  of  brandy.  Suvaroff  smiled 
grimly  and  said  nothing.  He  turned  his  back  upon  the 
company  and  began  to  watch  the  shadows  enter  and  dis- 
appear. To-night  the  puppets  seemed  more  whimsical 
than  grotesque,  and  once  he  nearly  laughed.  A  shadow 
with  an  enormous  nose  appeared ;  and  a  fly,  as  big  as  a 
bumblebee,  lit  upon  the  nose  and  sat  rubbing  its  legs 
together  in  insolent  content.  A  hand,  upraised,  struck  at 
the  fly.  The  nose  disappeared  as  if  completely  anni- 
hilated by  the  blow,  while  the  fly  hovered  safely  aloof. 
Feeling  encouraged,  Suvaroff  took  another  drink.     But 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  143 

the  more  he  drank  the  less  genial  were  the  shadows,  and 
by  midnight  they  all  had  become  as  sinister  and  terrible  as 
ever. 

On  the  way  home  to  his  room  Suvaroff  suddenly  re- 
membered that  he  had  a  friend  who  was  a  druggist. 

"  Perhaps  he  can  give  me  something  to  make  me  sleep," 
Suvaroff  muttered. 

But  the  drug-store  was  closed.  Suvaroff  climbed 
wearily  up  the  stairs  of  the  Hotel  des  Alpes  Maritimes. 
Minetti  was  sitting  on  the  steps  near  the  third  landing. 

"  I  was  preparing  to  go  home,"  said  the  hunchback. 
"  What  kept  you  so  late  ?  " 

"  I  went  around  another  way,"  answered  Suvaroff. 
"  I  thought  I  might  get  something  from  a  druggist  friend 
to  help  me  sleep." 

They  stood  before  the  door  of  Suvaroff's  room. 
Suvaroff  opened  the  door  and  they  went  in. 

"  Sleeping-powders  are  dangerous,"  observed  Minetti, 
throwing  his  hat  upon  the  bed. 

"  So  I  fancied,"  replied  Suvaroff,  dryly. 

"  Where  do  you  spend  your  nights  ? "  Minetti  de- 
manded suddenly. 

Suvaroff  sat  down.  "  Watching  shadows  in  a  wine- 
shop." 

"  Ah  —  a  puppet  show  !  " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  I  will  explain.  .  .  .  No ;  come  to 
think  of  it,  there  is  no  explanation.  But  it  is  extremely 
amusing.  To-night,  for  instance,  I  nearly  laughed.  .  .  . 
Have  you  ever  watched  shadows  upon  a  wall?  Really, 
they  are  diverting  beyond  belief." 

"  Yes.  I  have  watched  them  often.  They  are  more 
real  to  me  than  actual  people,  because  they  are  uglier. 
Beauty  is  a  lie  !  " 

A  note  of  dreadful  conviction  crept  into  the  hunch- 
back's voice.  Suvaroff  looked  at  him  intently,  and  said, 
quite  simply: 

"  What  a  bitter  truth  yoii  are,  my  friend !  " 

Minetti  stared  at  Suvaroff,  and  he  rose.     "  Perhaps  I 


144  LAUGHTER 

shall  see  you  at  your  puppet  show  some  evening,"  he 
said.     And,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  left  the  room. 

Suvaroff  lay  again  all  night  upon  his  bed  staring  in  a 
mute  agony  at  the  ceiling.  Once  or  twice  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  sounds  of  music  from  the  next  room.  His 
heart  leaped  joyfully.  But  almost  instantly  his  hopes 
sank  back,  like  spent  swimmers  in  a  relentless  sea.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  brain  were  thirsting.  He  was  in  a 
pitiless  desert  of  white-heated  thought,  and  there  was  not 
a  cloud  of  oblivion  upon  the  horizon  of  his  despair.  Re- 
membrance flamed  like  a  molten  sun,  greedily  withering 
every  green,  refreshing  thing  in  its  path.  How  long  be- 
fore this  dreadful  memory  would  consume  him  utterly? 

"HI  could  only  laugh !  "  he  cried  in  his  agony.  "  // 
/  could  only  laugh!" 

All  next  day  Suvaroff  was  in  a  fever ;  not  a  physical 
fever,  but  a  mental  fever  that  burned  with  devastating 
insistence.  He  could  not  lie  still  upon  his  bed,  so  he  rose 
and  stumbled  about  the  city's  streets.  But  nothing  di- 
verted him.  Before  his  eyes  a  sheet  of  fire  burned,  and 
a  blinding  light  seemed  to  shut  out  everything  else  from 
his  vision.  Even  his  thoughts  crackled  like  dry  faggots  in 
a  flame. 

"  When  evening  comes,"  he  said,  "  a  breeze  will  spring 
up  and  I  shall  have  some  relief."  But  almost  at  once  he 
thought:  "  A  breeze  will  do  no  good.  It  will  only  make 
matters  worse !  I  have  heard  that  nothing  puts  out  a 
fire  so  quickly  as  a  shower.  Let  me  see  —  It  is  now  the 
middle  of  August.  ...  It  does  not  rain  in  this  part  of 
the  world  until  October.  Well,  I  must  wait  until  Octo- 
ber, then.  No ;  a  breeze  at  evening  will  do  no  good.  I 
will  go  and  watch  the  shadows  again.  Shadows  are 
cool  affairs  if  one  sits  in  them,  but  how.  .  .  ." 

And  he  began  to  wonder  how  he  could  contrive  to  sit 
in  shadows  that  fell  only  on  a  wall. 

How  he  got  to  the  wine-shop  he  did  not  know,  but  at  a 
late  hour  he  found  himself  sittin?  at  his  accustomed  seat. 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  145 

His  bottle  of  brandy  stood  before  him.  To-night  the 
shadows  were  blacker  than  ever,  as  if  the  fury  of  the 
flames  within  him  were  providing  these  dancing  figures 
with  a  brighter  background. 

"  These  shadows  are  not  the  pictures  of  my  thoughts," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  Neither  are  they  chained  souls 
seeking  to  escape.  They  are  the  smoke  from  the  fire  in 
my  head.  They  are  the  black  srrioke  from  my  brain 
which  is  slowly  burning  away !  " 

He  sat  for  hours,  staring  at  the  wall.  The  figures  came 
and  went,  but  they  ceased  to  have  any  form  or  meaning. 
He  merely  sat  and  drank,  and  stared.  .  .  .  All  at  once  a 
strange  shadow  appeared.  A  shadow  ?  No  ;  a  phantom 
—  a  dreadful  thing!  Suvaroff  leaned  forward.  His 
breath  came  quickly,  his  body  trembled  in  the  grip  of  a 
convulsion,  his  hands  were  clenched.  He  rose  in  his  seat, 
and  suddenly  —  quite  suddenly,  without  warning  —  he 
began  to  laugh.  .  .  .  The  shadow  halted  in  its  flight 
across  the  wall.  Suvaroflf  circled  the  room  with  his  gaze. 
In  the  center  of  the  wine-shop  stood  Flavio  Minetti. 
Suvaroflf  sat  down.     He  was  still  shaking  with  laughter. 

Presently  Suvaroflf  was  conscious  that  Minetti  had  dis- 
appeared. The  fire  in  his  brain  had  ceased  to  burn. 
Instead  his  senses  seemed  chilled,  not  disagreeably,  but 
with  a  certain  pleasant  numbness.  He  glanced  about. 
What  was  he  doing  in  such  a  strange,  squalid  place? 
And  the  brandy  was  abominable !  He  called  the  waiter, 
paid  him  what  was  owing,  and  left  at  once. 

There  was  no  mist  in  the  air  to-night.  The  sky  was 
clear  and  a  wisp  of  moon  crept  on  its  disdainful  way 
through  the  heavens. 

"  I  shall  sleep  to-night,"  muttered  Suvaroflf,  as  he 
climbed  up  to  his  room  upon  the  third  story  of  the  Hotel 
des  Alpes  Maritimes. 

He  undressed  deliberately.  All  his  former  frenzy  was 
gone.  Shortly  after  he  had  crawled  into  bed  he  heard  a 
step  on  the  landing.  Then,  as  usual,  sounds  began  to 
drift  down  the  passageway,  not  in  heavy  and  clattering 


146  LAUGHTER 

fashion,  but  with  a  pattering  quality  like  a  bird  upon  a 
roof.  And,  curiously,  Suvaroff's  thoughts  wandered  to 
other  things,  and  a  picture  of  his  native  country  flashed 
over  him  —  Little  Russia  in  the  languid  embrace  of  sum- 
mer—  green  and  blue  and  golden.  The  soft  notes  of  the 
balalaika  at  twilight  came  to  him,  and  the  dim  shapes  of 
dancing  peasants,  whirling  like  aspen-leaves  in  a  fresh 
breeze.  He  remembered  the  noonday  laughter  of  sky- 
larks ;  the  pear-trees  bending  patiently  beneath  their  har- 
vest ;  the  placid  river  winding  its  willow-hedged  way, 
cutting  the  plain  like  a  thin  silver  knife. 

A  fresh  current  of  air  began  to  blow  upon  him.  He 
heard  the  creak  of  a  rusty  hinge. 

"  He  has  opened  the  door,"  SuvarofT  whispered.  His 
teeth  began  to  chatter.  "  Nevertheless,  I  shall  sleep  to- 
night," he  said  to  himself  reassuringly. 

A  faint  footfall  sounded  upon  the  threshold.  .  .  . 
Suvaroff  drew  the  bedclothes  higher. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM^ 

By  H.  G.  DWIGHT 

From  The  Century  Magazine. 

I  returned,  and  saw  under  the  sun,  that  the  race  is  not  to  the 
swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  neither  yet  bread  to  the  wise, 
nor  yet  riches  to  men  of  understanding,  nor  yet  favour  to  men 
of  skill;  but  time  and  chance  happeneth  to  them  all. 

Ecclesiastes,  ix,  ii. 


THE  first  of  the  two  boats  to  arrive  at  this  unap- 
pointed  rendezvous  was  one  to  catch  the  eye  even 
in  that  river  of  strange  craft.  She  had  neither  the  raking 
bow  nor  the  rising  poop  of  the  local  mehala,  but  a  tall  in- 
curving beak,  not  unlike  those  of  certain  Mesopotamian 
sculptures,  with  a  windowed  and  curtained  deck-house  at 
the  stern.  Forward  she  carried  a  short  mast.  The  lateen 
sail  was  furled,  however,  and  the  galley  was  propelled 
at  a  fairly  good  gait  by  seven  pairs  of  long  sweeps.  They 
flashed  none  too  rhythmically,  it  must  be  added,  at  the 
sun  which  had  just  risen  above  the  Persian  mountains. 
And  although  the  slit  sleeves  of  the  fourteen  oarsmen,  all 
of  them  young  and  none  of  them  ill  to  look  upon,  flapped 
decoratively  enough  about  the  handles  of  the  sweeps,  they 
could  not  be  said  to  present  a  shipshape  appearance. 
Neither  did  the  black  felt  caps  the  boatmen  wore,  fan- 
tastically tall  and  knotted  about  their  heads  with  gay 
fringed  scarves. 

This  barge  had  passed  out  of  the  Ab-i-Diz  and  was 
making  its  stately  enough  way  across  the  basin  of  divided 
waters  below  Bund-i-Kir,  when  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Ab-i-Gerger  —  the  easterly  of  two  turbid   threads  into 

1  Copyright,   1917,  by  The  Century  Company.     Copyright,   1918,  by  H.  G. 
Owight. 


148  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

which  the  Karun  above  this  point  is  split  by  a  long  island 
—  there  shot  a  trim  white  motor-boat.  The  noise  she 
made  in  the  breathless  summer  sunrise,  intensified  and 
reechoed  by  the  high  clay  banks  which  here  rise  thirty 
feet  or  more  above  the  water,  caused  the  rowers  of  the 
galley  to  look  around.  Then  they  dropped  their  sweeps 
in  astonishment  at  the  spectacle  of  the  small  boat  ad- 
vancing so  rapidly  toward  them  without  any  eflfort  on  the 
part  of  the  four  men  it  contained,  as  if  blown  by  the 
breath  of  jinn.  The  word  Firengi,  however,  passed 
around  the  deck  —  that  word  so  flattering  to  a  great 
race,  which  once  meant  Frank  but  which  now,  in  one 
form  or  another,  describes  for  the  people  of  western 
Asia  the  people  of  Europe  and  their  cousins  beyond  the 
seas.  Among  the  friends  of  the  jinn,  of  whom  as  it 
happened  only  two  were  Europeans,  there  also  passed 
an  explanatory  word.  But  although  they  pronounced  the 
strange  oarsmen  to  be  Lurs,  they  caused  their  jinni  to 
cease  his  panting,  so  struck  were  they  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  high-beaked  barge. 

The  two  craft  drifted  abreast  of  each  other  about  mid- 
way of  the  sunken  basin.  As  they  did  so,  one  of  the 
Europeans  in  the  motor-boat,  a  stocky  black-moustached 
fellow  in  blue  overalls,  wearing  in  place  of  the  regulation 
helmet  of  that  climate  a  greasy  black  herd  over  one  ear, 
lifted  his  hand  from  the  wheel  and  called  out  the  Arabic 
salutation  of  the  country: 

"  Peace  be  unto  you !  " 

"  And  to  you,  peace !  "  responded  a  deep  voice  from 
the  doorway  of  the  deck-house.  It  was  evident  that 
the  utterer  of  this  friendly  antiphon  was  not  a  Lur. 
Fairer,  taller,  stouter,  and  older  than  his  wild-looking 
crew,  he  was  also  better  dressed  —  in  a  girdled  robe  of 
gray  silk,  with  a  striped  silk  scarf  covering  his  hair  and 
the  back  of  his  neck  in  the  manner  of  the  Arabs.  A  thick 
brown  beard  made  his  appearance  more  imposing,  while 
two  scars  across  his  left  cheek,  emerging  from  the  beard, 
suggested  or  added  to  something  in  him  which  might  on 
occasion  become  formidable.     As  it  was  he  stepped  for- 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  149 

ward  with  a  bow  and  addressed  a  slim  young  man  who 
sat  in  the  stern  of  the  motor-boat.  "  Shall  we  pass  as 
Kinglake  and  the  Englishman  of  Eothcn  did  in  the  des- 
ert," asked  the  stranger,  smiling,  in  a  very  good  English, 
"  because  they  had  not  been  introduced  ?  Or  will  you  do 
me  the  honor  to  come  on  board  my — ark  ?  " 

The  slim  young  man,  whose  fair  hair,  smooth  face,  and 
white  clothes  made  him  the  most  boyish  looking  of  that 
curious  company,  lifted  his  white  helmet  and  smiled  in 
return. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  assented.  And,  becoming  conscious 
that  his  examination  of  this  surprising  stranger,  who 
looked  down  at  him  with  odd  light  eyes,  was  too  near  a 
stare,  he  added :  "  What  on  earth  is  your  ark  made  of, 
Mr.  Noah?" 

What  she  was  made  of,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  what 
heightened  the  efifect  of  remoteness  she  produced  —  a 
hard  dark  wood  unknown  to  the  lower  Karun,  cut  in 
lengths  of  not  more  than  two  or  three  feet  and  caulked 
with  reeds  and  mud. 

"  *  Make  thee  an  ark  of  gopher  wood,' "  quoted  the 
stranger.  "  '  Rooms  shalt  thou  make  in  the  ark,  and  thou 
shalt  pitch  it  within  and  without  with  pitch.'  " 

"Bitumen,  eh?"  exclaimed  the  slim  young  man. 
"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ask,  you  who  drill  oil  at  Meidan-i-Naft?  " 

"As  it  happens,  I  don't!  "  smiled  the  slim  young  man. 

"  At  any  rate,"  continued  the  stranger,  after  a  scarcely 
perceptible  pause,  "  let  me  welcome  you  on  board  the 
Ark."  And  when  the  unseen  jinni  had  made  it  possible 
for  the  slim  young  man  to  set  foot  on  the  deck  of  the 
barge,  the  stranger  added,  with  a  bow :  "  Magin  is  my 
name — from  Brazil." 

If  the  slim  young  man  did  not  stare  again,  he  at  least 
had  time  to  make  out  that  the  oddity  of  his  host's  light 
eyes  lay  not  so  much  in  the  fact  of  their  failing  to  he 
distinctly  brown,  gray,  or  green,  as  that  they  had  a  trans- 
lucent look.  Then  he  responded  briefly,  holding  out  his 
hand : 


ISO  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"  Matthews.  But  isn't  this  a  long  way  from  Rio  de 
Janeiro? " 

"  Well,"  returned  the  other,  "  it's  not  so  near  London ! 
But  come  in  and  have  something,  won't  you  ?  "  And  he 
held  aside  the  reed  portiere  that  screened  the  door  of  the 
deck-house. 

"  My  word !  You  do  know  how  to  do  yourself !  "  ex- 
claimed Matthews.  His  eye  took  in  the  Kerman  em- 
broidery on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  small  saloon, 
the  gazelle  skins  and  silky  Shiraz  rugs  covering  the  two 
divans  at  the  sides,  the  fine  Sumak  carpet  on  the  floor, 
and  the  lion  pelt  in  front  of  an  inner  door,  "  By  Jove !  " 
he  exclaimed  again.     "  That's  a  beauty !  " 

"  Ha !  "  laughed  the  Brazilian.  "  The  Englishman 
spies  his  lion  first !  " 

"  Where  did  you  find  him  ?  "  asked  Matthews,  going 
behind  the  table  for  a  better  look.  "They're  getting  few 
and  far  between  around  here,  they  say." 

"  Oh,  they  still  turn  up,"  answered  the  Brazilian,  it 
seemed  to  Matthews  not  too  definitely.  Before  he  could 
pursue  the  question  farther,  Magin  clapped  his  hands 
Instantly  there  appeared  at  the  outer  door  a  barefooted 
Lur,  whose  extraordinary  cap  looked  to  Matthews  even 
taller  and  more  pontifical  than  those  of  his  fellow-country- 
men at  the  oars.  The  Lur,  his  hands  crossed  on  his  girdle, 
received  a  rapid  order  and  vanished  as  silently  as  he  came. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  the  lingo  like  that !  "  commented  Mat- 
thews. 

Magin  waved  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"  One  picks  it  up  soon  enough.  Besides,  what's  the 
use  —  with  a  man  like  yours?  Who  is  he,  by  the  way? 
He  doesn't  look  English." 

"Who?  Gaston?  He  isn't.  He's  French.  And  he 
doesn't  know  too  much  of  the  lingo.  But  the  blighter 
could  get  on  anywhere.  He's  been  all  over  the  place  — 
Algiers,  Egypt,  Baghdad.  He's  been  chauflFeur  to  more 
nabobs  in  turbans  than  you  can  count.  He's  a  topping 
mechanic,  too.     The  wheel  hasn't  been  invented  that  beg- 


H.  G.  D WIGHT  151 

gar  can't  make  go  'round.  The  only  trouble  he  has  is 
with  his  own.  He  keeps  time  for  a  year  or  two,  and  then 
something  happens  to  his  mainspring  and  he  gets  the 
sack.  But  he  never  seems  to  go  home.  He  always 
moves  on  to  some  place  where  it's  hotter  and  dirtier.  You 
should  hear  his  stories !     He's  an  amusing  devil." 

"  And  perhaps  not  so  different  from  the  rest  of  us !  " 
threw  out  Magin.  "What  flea  bites  us?  Why  do  you 
come  here,  courting  destruction  in  a  cockleshell  that  may 
any  minute  split  on  a  rock  and  spill  you  to  the  sharks, 
when  you  might  be  punting  some  pretty  girl  up  the  back- 
waters of  the  Thames  ?  Why  do  1  float  around  in  this  old 
ark  of  reeds  and  bulrushes,  like  an  elderly  Moses  in  search 
of  a  promised  land,  who  should  be  at  home  wearing  the 
slippers  of  middle  age?  What  is  it?  A  sunstroke? 
This  is  hardly  the  country  where  Goethe's  citrons  bloom !  " 

"Damned  if  I  know!"  laughed  Matthews.  "I  fancy 
we  like  a  bit  of  a  lark !  " 

The  Brazilian  laughed  too. 

"  A  bit  of  a  lark !  "  he  echoed. 

Just  then  the  silent  Lur  reappeared  with  a  tray. 

"  I  say !  "  protested  Matthews.  "  Whiskey  and  soda  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  middle  of  July — " 

"  1914,  if  you  must  be  so  precise!"  added  Magin  jo- 
vially. "  But  why  not  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Aren't  you  an 
Englishman?  You  mustn't  shake  the  pious  belief  in 
which  I  was  brought  up,  that  you  are  all  weaned  with 
Scotch!  Say  when.  It  isn't  every  day  that  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  so  fortunate  an  encounter."  And,  rising,  he 
lifted  his  glass,  bowed,  and  said :  "  Here's  to  a  bit  of  a 
lark,  Mr.  Matthews !  " 

The  younger  man  rose  to  it.  But  inwardly  he  began  to 
feel  a  little  irked. 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked,  nibbling  at  a  biscuit,  "  can  you 
tell  me  anything  about  the  Ab-i-Diz?  I  dare  say  you 
must  know  something  about  it  —  since  your  men  look  as 
if  they  came  from  up  that  way.  Is  there  a  decent  channel 
as  far  as  Dizful?  " 


152  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"  Ah !  "  uttered  Magin  slowly.  "  Are  you  thinking  of 
going  up  there  ?  "  He  considered  the  question,  and  his 
guest,  with  a  flicker  in  his  lighted  eyes.  "  Well,  decent 
is  a  relative  word,  you  know.  However,  wonders  can  be 
accomplished  with  a  stout  rope  and  a  gang  of  natives,  even 
beyond  Dizful.  But  here  you  see  me  and  my  ark  still 
whole  —  after  a  night  journey,  too.  The  worst  thing  is 
the  sun.  You  see  I  am  more  careful  of  my  skin  than  you. 
As  for  the  vshoals,  the  rapids,  the  sharks,  the  lions,  the 
nomads  who  pop  at  you  from  the  bank,  et  cetera  —  you 
are  an  Englishman !  Do  you  take  an  interest  in  an- 
tiques ?  "  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

"  Yes  — :  though  interest  is  a  relative  word  too,  I  ex- 
pect." 

"  Quite  so !  "  agreed  the  Brazilian.  "  I  have  rather 
a  mania  for  that  sort  of  thing,  myself.  Wait.  Let  me 
show  you."  And  he  went  into  the  inner  cabin.  When 
he  came  back  he  held  up  an  alabaster  cup.  "  A  Greek 
kylix!  "  he  cried.  "  Pure  Greek!  What  an  outline,  eh? 
This  is  what  keeps  me  from  putting  on  my  slippers !  I 
have  no  doubt  Alexander  left  it  behind  him.  Perhaps 
Hephaistion  drank  out  of  it,  or  Nearchus,  to  celebrate 
his  return  from  India.  And  some  rascally  Persian  stole 
it  out  of  a  tent !  " 

Matthews,  taking  the  cup,  saw  the  flicker  brighten  in 
the  Brazilian's  eyes. 

"  Nice  little  pattern  of  grape  leaves,  that,"  he  said. 
"  And  think  of  picking  it  up  out  here !  " 

"  Oh  you  can  always  pick  things  up,  if  you  know  where 
to  look,"  said  Magin.  "  Dieulafoy  and  the  rest  of  them 
didn't  take  everything.  How  could  they?  The  people 
who  have  come  and  gone  through  this  country  of  Elam ! 
Why  just  over  there,  at  Bund-i-Kir,  Antigonus  fought 
Eumenes  and  the  Silver  Shields  for  the  spoils  of  Susa  — 
and  won  them !  I  have  discovered  —  But  come  in 
here."  And  he  pushed  wider  open  the  door  of  the  inner 
cabin. 

Matthews  stepped  into  what  was  evidently  a  stateroom. 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  153 

A  broad  bunk  filled  one  side  of  it,  and  the  visitor  could 
not  help  remarking  a  second  interior  door.  But  his  eye 
was  chiefly  struck  by  two,  three,  no  four,  chests,  which 
took  up  more  space  in  the  narrow  cabin  than  could  be 
convenient  for  its  occupant.  They  seemed  to  be  made  of 
the  same  mysterious  dark  wood  as  the  "  ark,"  clamped 
with  copper. 

"  I  say  !  Those  aren*t  bad !  "  he  exclaimed.  **  More  of 
the  spoils  of  Susa?  " 

"  Ho !  My  trunks  ?  I  had  them  made  up  the  river, 
like  the  rest.  But  I  wonder  what  would  interest  you 
in  my  museum.  Let's  see."  He  bent  over  one  of  the 
chests,  unlocked  it,  rummaged  under  the  cover,  and 
brought  out  a  broad  metal  circlet  which  he  handed  to 
Matthews.     "  How  would  that  do  for  a  crown,  eh?  " 

The  young  man  took  it  over  to  the  porthole.  The 
metal,  he  then  saw,  was  a  soft  antique  gold,  wrought  into 
a  decoration  of  delicate  spindles,  with  a  border  of  filigree. 
The  circlet  was  beautiful  in  itself,  and  a.stonishingly 
heavy.  But  what  it  chiefly  did  for  Matthews  was  to 
sharpen  the  sense  of  strangeness,  of  remoteness,  which 
this  bizarre  galley,  come  from  unknown  waters,  had 
brought  into  the  familiar  muddy  Karun. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  went  on  the  Brazilian,  "  it's  an 
anklet.  But  can  you  make  it  out?  Those  spindles  are 
Persian,  while  the  filigree  is  more  Byzantine  than  any- 
thing else.     You  find  funny  things  up  there,  in  caves  — " 

He  tossed  a  vague  hand,  into  which  Matthews  put  the 
anklet,  saying: 

"  Take  it  before  I  steal  it!  " 

"  Keep  it,  won't  you  ? "  proposed  the  astonishing  Bra- 
zilian. 

•'  Oh,  thanks.  But  I  could  hardly  do  that,"  Matthews 
replied. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  protested  Magin.  "  As  a  souvenir  of  a 
pleasant  meeting!  1  have  a  ton  of  them."  He  waved  his 
hand  at  the  chests. 

"  No,  really,  dianks,"  persisted  the  young  man.     "  And 


154  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

i 
I'm  afraid  we  must  be  getting  on.     I  don't  know  the 
river,  you  see,  and  I'd  like  to  reach  Dizful  before  dark." 

The  Brazilian  studied  him  a  moment. 

"  As  you  say,"  he  finally  conceded.  "  But  you  will  at 
least  have  another  drink  before  you  go  ?  " 

"  No,  not  even  that,  thanks,"  said  Matthews.  "  We 
really  must  be  off.     But  it's  been  very  decent  of  you." 

He  felt  both  awkward  and  amused  as  he  backed  out  to 
the  deck,  followed  by  his  imposing  host.  At  sight  of 
the  two  the  crew  scattered  to  their  oars.  They  had  been 
leaning  over  the  side,  absorbed  in  admiration  of  the 
white  jinn-boat.  Matthews'  Persian  servant  handed  up 
to  Magin's  butler  a  tray  of  tea  glasses  —  on  which  Mat- 
thews also  noted  a  bottle.  In  honor  of  that  bottle  Gaston 
himself  stood  up  and  took  off  his  greasy  cap. 

"  A  thousand  thanks.  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
tasted  nothing  so  good  since  I  left  France." 

"  In  that  case,  my  friend,"  rejoined  Magin  in  French  as 
good  as  his  English,  "  it  is  time  you  returned !  "  And  he 
abounded  in  amiable  speeches  and  ceremonious  bows  until 
the  last  au  revoir. 

"All  plaisir!"  called  back  Gaston,  having  invoked  his 
jinni.  Then,  after  a  last  look  at  the  barge,  he  asked 
over  his  shoulder  in  a  low  voice :  "  Who  is  this  extraor- 
dinary type,  M'sieu  Guy?  A  species  of  an  Arab,  who 
speaks  French  and  English  and  who  voyages  in  a  galley 
from  a  museum !  " 

"  A  Brazilian,  he  says,"  imparted  M'sieu  Guy  —  whose 
surname  was  beyond  Gaston's  gallic  tongue. 

"  Ah  !  The  uncle  of  America !  That  understands  it- 
self !  He  sent  me  out  a  cognac,  too !  And  did  he  pre- 
sent you  to  his  dame  de  compagnief  She  put  her  head 
out  of  a  porthole  to  look  at  our  boat.  A  Lur,  like  the 
others,  but  with  a  pair  of  blistering  black  eyes !  And  a 
jewel  in  her  nose  !  " 

"  It  takes  you,  Gaston,"  said  Guy  Matthews,  "  to  dis- 
cover a  dame  of  company !  " 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  155 

II 

When  the  white  motor-boat  had  disappeared  in  the  ght- 
ter  of  the  Ab-i-Diz,  Senhor  Magin,  not  unHke  other  falH- 
ble  human  beings  when  released  from  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  a  pitch,  appeared  to  lose  something  of  his 
gracious  humor.  So,  it  transpired,  did  his  decorative 
boatmen,  who  had  not  expected  to  row  twenty-five  miles 
upstream  at  a  time  when  most  people  in  that  climate  seek 
the  relief  of  their  serdabs  —  which  are  underground 
chambers  cooled  by  running  water,  it  may  be,  and  by  a 
tall  badgir,  or  air  chimney.  The  running  water,  to  be 
sure,  was  here,  and  had  already  begun  to  carry  the  barge 
down  the  Karun.  If  the  high  banks  of  that  tawny  stream 
constituted  a  species  of  air  chimney,  however,  such  air  as 
moved  therein  was  not  calculated  for  relief.  But  when 
Brazilians  command,  even  a  Lur  may  obey.  These  Lurs, 
at  all  events,  propelled  their  galley  back  to  the  basin  of 
Bund-i-Kir,  and  on  into  the  Ab-i-Shuteit — -.which  is  the 
westerly  of  those  two  halves  of  the  Karun.  Before  night- 
fall the  barge  had  reached  the  point  where  navigation 
ends.  There  Magin  sent  his  majordomo  ashore  to  pro- 
cure mounts.  And  at  sunset  the  two  of  them,  followed 
by  a  horse  boy,  rode  northward  six  or  seven  miles,  till 
the  city  of  Shuster  rose  dark  above  them  in  the  summer 
evening,  on  its  rock  that  cleaves  the  Karun  in  two. 

The  Bazaar  by  which  they  entered  the  town  was  de- 
serted at  that  hour,  save  by  dogs  that  set  up  a  terrific 
barking  at  the  sight  of  strangers.  Here  the  charvadar 
lighted  a  vast  white  linen  lantern,  which  he  proceeded 
to  carry  in  front  of  the  two  riders.  He  seemed  to  know 
where  he  was  going,  for  he  led  the  way  without  a  pause 
through  long  blank  silent  streets  of  indescribable  filth  and 
smells.  The  gloom  of  them  was  deepened  by  jutting  bal- 
conies, and  by  innumerable  badgirs  that  cut  out  a  strange 
black  fretwork  against  amazing  stars.  At  last  the  three 
stopped  in  front  of  a  gate  in  the  vicinity  of  the  citadel. 
This  was  not  one  of  the  gateways  that  separate  the  differ- 


156  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

ent  quarters  of  Shuster,  but  a  door  in  a  wall,  recessed 
in  a  tall  arch  and  ornamented  with  an  extraordinary  va- 
riety of  iron  clamps,  knobs,  locks,  and  knockers. 

Of  one  of  the  latter  the  cliarvadar  made  repeated  use, 
until  someone  shouted  from  inside.  The  horse-boy 
shouted  back,  and  presently  his  lantern  caught  a  glitter 
of  two  eyes  in  a  slit.  The  eyes  belonged  to  a  cautious 
doorkeeper,  who  after  satisfying  himself  that  the  visitors 
were  not  enemies  admitted  the  Brazilian  and  the  Lur 
into  a  vaulted  brick  vestibule.  Then,  having  looked  to  his 
wards  and  bolts,  he  lighted  Magin  through  a  corridor 
which  turned  into  a  low  tunnel-like  passage.  This  led 
into  a  sort  of  cloister,  where  a  covered  ambulatory  sur- 
rounded a  dark  pool  of  stars.  Thence  another  passage 
brought  them  out  into  a  great  open  court.  Here  an  in- 
visible jet  of  water  made  an  illusion  of  coolness  in  an- 
other, larger,  pool,  overlooked  by  a  portico  of  tall  slim  pil- 
lars.    Between  them  Magin  caught  the  glow  of  a  cigar. 

"  Good  evening,  Ganz,"  his  bass  voice  called  from  the 
court. 

"  Heaven !  Is  that  you  ?  "  replied  the  smoker  of  the 
cigar.  "  What  are  you  doing  here,  in  God's  name  ?  I 
imagined  you  at  Mohamera,  by  this  time,  or  even  in  the 
Gulf."  This  i;emark,  it  may  not  be  irrelevant  to  say,  was 
in  German  —  as  spoken  in  the  trim  town  of  Zurich. 

"  And  so  I  should  have  been,"  replied  the  polyglot 
Magin  in  the  same  language,  mounting  the  steps  of  the 
portico  and  shaking  his  friend's  hand,  "  but  for  —  all 
sorts  of  things.  If  we  ran  aground  once,  we  ran  aground 
three  thousand  times.  I  begin  to  wonder  if  we  shall  get 
through  the  reefs  at  Ahwaz  —  with  all  the  rubbish  I  have 
on  board." 

"  Ah,  bah !  You  can  manage,  going  down.  But  why 
do  you  waste  your  time  in  Shuster,  with  all  that  is  going 
on  in  Europe  ?  " 

"H'm!"  grunted  Magin.  "What  is  going  on  in  Eu- 
rope? A  great  family  is  wearing  Vv'ell  cut  mourning,  and 
a  small  family  is  beginning  to  turn  green !     How  does 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  157 

that  affect  two  quiet  nomads  in  Elam  —  especially  when 
one  of  them  is  a  Swiss  and  one  a  Brazilian?"  He 
laughed,  and  lighted  a  cigar  the  other  offered  him.  "  My 
dear  Ganz,  it  is  an  enigma  to  me  how  a  man  who  can 
listen  to  such  a  fountain,  and  admire  such  stars,  can  per- 
petually sigh  after  the  absurdities  of  Europe!  Which  re- 
minds me  that  I  met  an  Englishman  this  morning." 

"Well,  what  of  that  ?     Are  Englishmen  so  rare  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no  —  though  I  notice,  my  good  Ganz,  that  >idu 
do  your  best  to  thin  them  out !  This  specimen  was  too 
typical  for  me  to  be  able  to  describe  him.  Younger  than 
usual,  possibly;  yellow  hair,  blue  eyes,  constrained  man- 
ner, everything  to  sample.  He  called  himself  Mark,  or 
^'Latthew.  Rather  their  apostolic  air.  too  —  except  that 
he  was  in  the  Oil  Company's  motor-boat.  But  he  gave 
mt  to  understand  that  he  was  not  in  the  Oil  Company." 

"  Quite  so." 

"  I  saw  for  myself  that  he  knows  nothing  about  archae- 
ology.    Who  is  he?     Lynch?     Bank?     Telegraph?" 

'*  He's  not  Lynch,  and  he's  not  Bank,  and  he's  not  Tele- 
graph, Neither  is  he  consul,  or  even  that  famous  rail- 
road. He's  —  English  !  "  And  Ganz  let  out  a  chuckle  at 
the  success  of  his  own  characterization. 

"Ah!  So?''  exclaimed.  Magin  elaborately.  "I  hear, 
by  the  way,  that  that  famous  railroad  is  not  marching 
so  fast.  The  Lurs  don't  like  it.  But  sometimes  even 
Englishmen,"  he  added,  "  have  reasons  for  doing  what 
they  do.  This  one.  at  any  rate,  seemed  more  inclined 
to  ask  questions  than  to  answer  them.  I  confess  I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  because  he  had  nothing  to  say  or 
whether  he  preferred  not  to  say  it.  Is  he  perhaps  a  son 
of  Papa,  making  the  grand  tour  ?  " 

"  More  or  less.  I'apa  gave  him  no  great  letter  of 
credit,  though.  He  came  out  to  visit  some  of  the  Oil  peo- 
ple. And  he's  been  here  long  enough  to  learn  quite  a  lot 
of  Persian." 

"  So  he  starts  this  morning,  I  take  it,  from  Sheleilieh. 
But  why  the  devil  does  he  go  to  Dizf  ul,  by  himself  ?  " 


158  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"And  why  the  devil  shouldn't  he  ?  He's  out  here,  and 
he  wants  to  see  the  sights  —  such  as  they  are.  So  he's 
going  to  take  a  look  at  the  ruins  of  Susa,  and  at  your 
wonderful  unspoiled  Dizful.  Shir  AH  Khan  will  be  de- 
lighted to  get  a  few  tomans  for  his  empty  house  by  the 
river.  Then  the  21st,  you  know,  is  the  coronation.  So 
I  gave  him  a  letter  to  the  Father  of  Swords,  who  — " 

"  Thunder  and  lightning ! "  Magin's  heavy  voice  re- 
sounded in  the  portico  very  like  a  bellow.  "  You,  Ganz, 
sent  this  man  to  the  Father  of  Swords?  He  might  be 
one  of  those  lieutenants  from  India  who  go  smelling 
around  in  their  holidays,  so  pink  and  innocent !  " 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  "  demanded  the  Swiss,  raising 
his  own  voice.  "Or  to  you  either?  After  all,  Senhor 
Magin,  are  you  the  Emperor  of  Elam  ?  " 

The  Brazilian  laughed. 

"  Not  yet !  And  naturally  it's  nothing  to  you,  when  you 
cash  him  checks  and  sell  him  tinned  cows  and  quinine. 
But  for  a  man  who  perpetually  sighs  after  Europe,  Herr 
Ganz,  and  for  a  Swiss  of  the  north,  you  strike  me  as  be- 
traying a  singular  lack  of  sensibility  to  certain  larger 
interests  of  your  race.  However —  What  concerns  me 
is  that  you  should  have  confided  to  this  young  man,  with 
such  a  roll  of  sentimental  eyes  as  I  can  imagine,  that  Diz- 
ful is  still  '  unspoiled  ' !  If  Dizful  is  unspoiled,  he  might 
spoil  it.  I've  found  some  very  nice  things  up  there,  you 
know.     I  was  even  fool  enough  to  show  him  one  or  two." 

"  Bah !  He  likes  to  play  tennis  and  shoot !  You  know 
these  English  boys." 

Magin  considered  those  English  boys  in  silence  for  a 
moment. 

"  Yes,  I  know  them.  This  one  told  me  he  liked  a  bit  of 
a  lark !  I  know  myself  what  a  lark  it  is  to  navigate  the 
Ab-i-Diz,  at  the  end  of  July !  But  what  is  most  curious 
about  these  English  boys  is  that  when  they  go  out  for 
a  bit  of  a  lark  they  come  home  with  Egypt  or  India  in 
their  pocket.  Have  you  noticed  that,  Ganz  ?  That's  their 
idea  of  a  bit  of  a  lark.     And  with  it  all  they  are  still  chil- 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  159 

dren.  What  can  one  do  with  such  people?  A  bit  of  a 
lark !  Well,  you  will  perhaps  make  me  a  little  annoyance, 
Mr.  Adolf  Ganz,  by  sending  your  English  boy  up  to  Diz- 
ful  to  have  a  bit  of  a  lark.  However,  he'll  either  give 
himself  a  sunstroke  or  get  himself  bitten  in  two  by  a 
shark.  He  asked  me  about  the  channel,  and  I  had  an 
inspiration.  I  told  him  he  would  have  no  trouble.  So 
he'll  go  full  speed  and  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see.  Do 
you  sell  coffins,  Mr,  Ganz,  in  addition  to  all  your  other 
valuable  merchandise  ?  " 

"  Naturally,  Mr.  Magin,"  replied  the  Swiss,  "  Do  you 
need  one  ?  But  you  haven't  explained  to  me  yet  why  you 
give  me  the  pain  of  saying  good-bye  to  you  a  second  time." 

"  Partly,  Mr.  Ganz,  because  I  am  tired  of  sleeping  in  an 
oven,  and  partly  because  I  —  the  Father  of  Swords  has 
asked  me  to  run  up  to  Bala  Bala  before  I  leave.  But 
principally  because  I  need  a  case  or  two  more  of  your 
excellent  vin  de  champagne  —  manufactured  out  of  Per- 
sian petroleum,  the  water  of  the  Karun,  the  namejess 
abominations  of  Shuster,  and  the  ever  effervescing  impu- 
dence of  the  Swiss  Republic !  " 

"What  can  I  do?"  smiled  the  flattered  author  of  this 
concoction,  "  I  have  to  use  what  I  can  get,  in  this  God- 
forsaken place." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  will  end  by  getting  a  million,  eh  ?  " 

"No  such  luck!  But  I'm  getting  a  piano.  Did  I  tell 
you?  A  Bliithner,  It's  already  on  the  way  up  from 
Mohamera," 

"  A  Bliithner !  In  Shuster !  God  in  heaven !  Why 
did  you  wait  until  I  had  gone  ?  " 

"  Well,  aren't  you  still  here  ?  "  The  fact  of  Magin's 
being  still  there,  so  unexpectedly,  hung  in  his  mind.  "  By 
the  way,  speaking  of  the  Father  of  Swords,  did  you 
give  him  an  order?  " 

"  I  gave  him  an  order.     Didn't  you  pay  it?  " 

"I  thought  twice  about  it.  For  unless  you  have  struck 
oil,  up  in  that  country  of  yours  where  nobody  goes,  or 
gold-" 


i6o  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"  Mr.  Adolf  Ganz,"  remarked  the  Brazilian  with  some 
pointedness,  "  all  I  ask  of  you  is  to  respect  my  signature 
and  to  keep  closed  that  many-tongued  mouth  of  yours.  I 
sometimes  fear  that  in  you  the  banker  is  inclined  to  ex- 
change confidences  with  the  chemist  —  or  even  with  the 
son  of  Papa  who  cashes  a  check.     Eh  ?  " 

Ganz  cleared  his  throat. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  rejoined,  "  all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
ask  him,  when  you  meet  him  again  at  Bala  Bala.  And  the 
English  bank  will  no  doubt  be  happy  to  accept  the  transfer 
of  your  account." 

Magin  began  to  chuckle. 

"We  assert  our  dignity?  Never  mind,  Adolf.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  have  a  high  opinion  of  your  discretion  — 
so  high  that  when  I  found  the  Imperial  Bank  of  Elam  I 
shall  put  you  in  charge  of  it!  And  you  did  me  a  real 
service  by  sending  that  motor-boat  across  my  bow  this 
morning.  For  in  it  I  discovered  just  the  chauffeur  I  have 
been  looking  for.  I  am  getting  tired  of  my  galley,  you 
know.     You  will  see  something  when  I  come  back." 

"  But,"  Ganz  asked  after  a  moment,  "  do  you  really 
expect  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  But  what  else  should  I  do  ?  End  my  days  sneezing 
and  sniffling  by  some  polite  lake  of  Zurich  like  you,  my 
poor  Ganz,  when  you  find  in  your  hand  the  magic  key  that 
might  unlock  for  you  any  door  in  the  world?  That,  for 
example,  is  not  my  idea  of  a  lark,  as  your  son  of  Papa 
would  say !  Men  are  astounding  animals,  I  admit.  But 
I  never  could  live  in  Europe,  where  you  can't  turn  around 
without  stepping  on  some  one  else's  toes.  I  want  room ! 
I  want  air !  I  want  light !  And  for  a  collector,  you 
know,  America  is  after  all  a  little  bare.     While  here  — !  " 

"  O  God !  "  cried  Adolf  Ganz  out  of  his  dark  Persian 
portico. 

Ill 

As  Gaston  very  truly  observed,  there  are  moments  in 
Persia  when  even  the  most  experienced  chauffeur  is  capa- 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  i6i 

ble  of  an  emotion.  And  an  unusual  number  of  such 
moments  enlivened  for  Gaston  and  his  companions  their 
journey  up  the  Ab-i-Diz.  Indeed  J^Iatthews  asked  him- 
self more  than  once  why  he  had  chosen  so  doubtful  a 
road  to  Dizful,  when  he  might  so  much  more  easily  have 
ridden  there,  and  at  night.  It  certainly  was  not  beauti- 
ful, that  river  of  brass  zigzagging  out  of  sight  of  its  empty 
hinterland.  Very  seldom  did  anything  so  visible  as  a 
palm  Hft  itself  against  the  blinding  Persian  blue.  Konar 
trees  were  commoner,  their  dense  round  masses  some- 
times shading  a  white-washed  tomb  or  a  black  tent.  Once 
or  twice  at  sight  of  the  motor-boat  a  bellam,  a  native 
canoe,  took  refuge  at  the  mouth  of  One  of  the  gullies  that 
scarred  the  bank  like  sun-cracks.  Generally,  however, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  between  the  water  and  the 
sky  but  two  yellow  walls  of  clay,  topped  by  endless  thick- 
ets of  tamarisk  and  nameless  scrub.  Matthews  won- 
dered, disappointed,  whether  a  jungle  looked  like  that, 
and  if  some  black-maned  lion  walked  more  softly  in  it,  or 
slept  less  soundly,  hearing  the  pant  of  the  unknown  crea- 
ture in  the  river.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  more  imme- 
diate lions  in  the  path.  The  sun,  for  one  thing,  as  the 
Brazilian  had  predicted,  proved  a  torment  against  which 
double  awnings  faced  with  green  were  of  small  avail. 
Then  the  treacheries  of  a  crooked  and  constantly  shallow- 
ing channel  needed  all  the  attention  the  travelers  could 
spare.  And  the  rapids  of  Kaleh  Bunder,  where  a  rocky 
island  flanked  by  two  reefs  threatened  to  bar  any  further 
progress,  afforded  the  liveliest  moments  of  their  day. 

The  end  of  that  day,  nevertheless,  found  our  sight-seer 
smoking  cigarettes  in  Shir  Ali  Khan's  garden  at  Dizful 
and  listening  to  the  camel  bells  that  jingled  from  the 
direction  of  certain  tall  black  pointed  arches  straddling 
the  dark  river.  When  Matthews  looked  at  those  arches 
by  sunlight,  and  at  the  queer  old  flat-topped  yellow  town 
visible  through  them,  he  regretted  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  continue  his  journey  so  soon.  However,  he 
was  coming  back.     So  he  packed  off  Gaston  and  the 


i62  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

Bakhtiari  to  Sheleilieh,  where  they  and  their  motor-boat 
belonged.  And  he  himself,  with  his  servant  Abbas  and 
the  charvadar  of  whom  they  hired  horses,  set  out  at  night- 
fall for  the  mountain  citadel  of  Bala  Bala.  For  there 
the  great  Salman  Taki  Khan,  chieftain  of  the  lower  Lurs, 
otherwise  known  as  the  Father  of  Swords,  was  to  cele- 
brate as  became  a  redoubtable  vassal  of  a  remote  and 
youthful  suzerain  the  coronation  of  Ahmed  Shah  Kajar. 

It  was  nearly  morning  again  when,  after  a  last  scram- 
ble up  a  trough  of  rocks  and  gravel  too  steep  for  riding, 
the  small  cavalcade  reached  a  plateau  in  the  shadow  of 
still  loftier  elevations.  Here  they  were  greeted  by  a  fu- 
rious barking  of  dogs.  Indeed  it  quickly  became  neces- 
sary to  organize  a  defence  of  whips  and  stones  against 
the  guardians  of  that  high  plateau.  The  uproar  soon 
brought  a  shout  out  of  the  darkness.  The  charvadar 
shouted  back,  and  after  a  long-distance  colloquy  there  ap- 
peared a  figure  crowned  by  the  tall  kola  of  the  Brazilian's 
boatmen,  who  drove  the  dogs  away.  The  dialect  in  which 
he  spoke  proved  incomprehensible  to  Matthews.  Luckily 
it  was  not  altogether  so  to  Abbas,  that  underling  long 
resigned  to  the  eccentricities  of  the  Firengi,  whose  ac- 
complishments included  even  a  sketchy  knowledge  of 
his  master's  tongue.  It  appeared  that  the  law  of  Bala 
Bala  forbade  the  door  of  the  Father  of  Swords  to  open 
before  sunrise.  But  the  tall-hatted  one  offered  the  visitor 
the  provisional  hospitality  of  a  black  tent,  of  a  refresh- 
ing drink  of  goats'  buttermilk,  and  of  a  comfortable  felt 
whereon  to  stretch  cramped  legs. 

When  Matthews  returned  to  consciousness  he  first  be- 
came  aware  of  a  blinding  oblong  of  light  in  the  dark  wall 
of  the  tent.  He  then  made  out  a  circle  of  pontifical 
black  hats,  staring  at  him,  his  fair  hair,  and  his  inde- 
cently close-fitting  clothes,  in  the  silence  of  unutterable 
curiosity.  It  made  him  think,  for  a  bewildered  instant, 
that  he  was  back  on  the  barge  he  had  met  in  the  river.  As 
for  the  black  hats,  what  astonished  them  not  least  was  the 
stranger's  immediate  demand  for  water,  and  his  evident 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  163 

dissatisfaction  with  the  quantity  of  it  they  brought  him. 
There  happily  proved  to  be  no  lack  of  this  commodity,  as 
Matthews'  ears  had  told  him.  He  was  not  long  in  pur- 
suing the  sound  into  the  open,  where  he  found  himself 
at  the  edge  of  a  village  of  black  tents,  pitched  in  a  grassy 
hollow  between  two  heights.  The  nearer  and  lower 
was  a  detached  cone  of  rock,  crowned  by  a  rude  castle. 
The  other  peak,  not  quite  so  precipitous,  afforded  foot- 
hold for  scattered  scrub  oaks  and  for  a  host  of  slowly 
moving  sheep  and  goats.  Between  them  the  plateau 
looked  down  on  two  sides  into  two  converging  valleys. 
And  the  clear  air  was  full  of  the  noise  of  a  brook  that 
cascaded  between  the  scrub  oaks  of  the  higher  mountain, 
raced  past  the  tents,  and  plunged  out  of  sight  in  the 
narrower  gorge. 

"  Ripping ! "  pronounced  Matthews  genially  to  his 
black-hatted  gallery. 

He  was  less  genial  about  the  persistence  of  the  gallery, 
rapidly  increased  by  recruits  from  the  black  tents,  in  dog- 
ging him  through  every  detail  of  his  toilet.  But  he  was 
rescued  at  last  by  Abbas  and  an  old  Lur  who,  putting  his 
two  hands  to  the  edge  of  his  black  cap,  saluted  him  in  the 
name  of  the  Father  of  Swords.  The  Lur  then  led  the 
way  to  a  trail  that  zigzagged  up  the  lower  part  of  the 
rocky  cone.  He  explained  the  quantity  of  loose  boulders 
obstructing  the  path  by  saying  that  they  had  been  left 
there  to  roll  down  on  whomever  should  visit  the  Father  of 
Swords  without  an  invitation.  That  such  an  enterprise 
would  not  be  too  simple  became  more  evident  when  the 
path  turned  into  a  cave.  Here  another  Lur  was  waiting 
with  candles.  He  gave  one  each  to  the  newcomers,  lead- 
ing the  way  to  a  low  door  in  the  rock.  This  was  opened 
by  an  individual  in  a  long  red  coat  of  ceremony,  carrying 
a  heavy  silver  mace,  who  gave  Matthews  the  customary 
salutation  of  peace  and  bowed  him  into  an  irregular  court. 
An  infinity  of  doors  opened  out  of  it  —  chiefly  of  the 
stables,  the  old  man  said,  pointing  out  a  big  white  mule 
or  two  of  the  famous  breed  of  Bala  Bala.     Thence  the 


i64  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

visitor  was  led  up  a  steep  stone  stair  to  a  terrace  giving 
entrance  upon  a  corridor  and  another,  narrower  stone 
stair.  From  its  prodigiously  high  steps  he  emerged  into 
a  hall,  carpeted  with  felt.  At  this  point,  the  Lurs  took  off 
their  shoes.  Matthews  followed  suit,  being  then  ushered 
into  what  was  evidently  a  room  of  state.  It  contained 
no  furniture,  to  be  sure,  save  for  the  handsome  rugs  on 
the  floor.  The  room  did  not  look  bare,  however,  for  its 
lines  were  broken  by  a  deep  alcove,  and  by  a  continuous 
succession  of  niches.  Between  and  about  the  niches  the 
walls  were  decorated  with  plaster  reliefs  of  flowers  and 
arabesques.  Alatthews  wondered  if  the  black  hats  were 
capable  of  that !  But  what  chiefly  caught  his  eye  was  the 
terrace  opening  out  of  the  room,  and  the  stupendous  view. 

The  terrace  hung  over  a  green  chasm  where  the  two 
converging  gorges  met  at  the  foot  of  the  crag  of  Bala 
Bala.  Matthews  looked  down  as  from  the  prow  of  a 
ship  into  the  tumbled  country  below  him,  through  which 
a  river  flashed  sinuously  toward  the  faraway  haze  of  the 
plains.  The  sound  of  water  filling  the  still  clear  air,  the 
brilliance  of  the  morning  light,  the  wildness  and  remote- 
ness of  that  mountain  eyrie,  so  different  from  anything 
he  had  yet  seen,  added  a  last  strangeness  to  the  impres- 
sions of  which  the  young  man  had  been  having  so  many. 

"  What  a  pity  to  spoil  it  with  a  railroad !  "  he  could  not 
help  thinking,  as  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  the  ter- 
race. 

"  Sahib !  "  suddenly  whispered  Abbas  behind  him. 

Matthews  turned,  and  saw  in  the  doorway  of  the  ter- 
race a  personage  who  could  be  none  other  than  his  host. 
In  place  of  the  kola  of  his  people  this  personage  wore  a 
great  white  turban,  touched  with  gold.  The  loose  blue 
aha  enveloping  his  ample  figure  was  also  embroidered 
with  gold.  Not  the  least  striking  detail  of  his  appearance 
however,  was  his  beard,  which  had  a  pronounced  ten- 
dency toward  scarlet.  His  nails  were  likewise  reddened 
with  henna,  reminding  Matthews  that  the  hands  belong- 
ing to  the  nails  were  rumored  to  bear  even  more  sinis- 


H.  G.  DWIGHX  165 

ter  stains.  And  the  bottomless  black  eyes  peering  out 
from  under. the  white  turban  lent  surprising  credibility 
to  such  rumors.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  graciousness 
in  the  gestures  with  which  those  famous  hands  saluted 
the  visitor  and  pointed  him  to  a  seat  of  honor  on  the  rug 
beside  the  Father  of  Swords.  The  Father  of  Swords  fur- 
thermore pronounced  his  heart  uplifted  to  receive  a  friend 
of  Ganz  Sahib,  that  prince  among  the  merchants  of  Shus- 
ter.  Yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  a  certain  surprise 
at  discovering  in  the  friend  of  the  prince  among  the 
merchants  of  Shuster  one  still  in  the  flower  of  youth,  who 
at  the  same  time  exhibited  the  features  of  good  fortune 
and  the  lineaments  of  prudence.  And  he  inquired  as  to 
what  sorrow  had  led  one  so  young  to  fold  the  carpet  of 
enjoyment  and  wander  so  far  from  his  parents. 

Matthews,  disdaining  the  promptings  of  Abbas  —  who 
stood  apart  like  a  statue  of  obsequiousness,  each  hand 
stuck  into  the  sleeve  of  the  other  —  responded  as  best  he 
might.  In  the  meantime  tea  and  candies  were  served 
by  a  black  hat  on  bended  knee,  who  also  produced  a 
pair  of  ornate  pipes.  The  Father  of  Swords  marvelled 
that  Matthews  should  have  abandoned  the  delights  of 
Shuster  in  order  to  witness  his  poor  celebrations  of  the 
morrow,  in  honor  of  the  coronation.  And  had  he  felt  no 
fear  of  robbers,  during  his  long  night  ride  from  Dizful? 
But  what  robbers  were  there  to  fear,  protested  Matthews, 
in  the  very  shadow  of  Bala  Bala?  At  that  the  Father  of 
Swords  began  to  make  bitter  complaint  of  the  afflictions 
Allah  had  laid  upon  him,  taking  his  text  from  these  lines 
of  Sadi:  "  If  thou  tellest  the  sorrows  of  thy  heart,  let  it 
be  to  him  in  whose  countenance  thou  mayst  be  assured  of 
prompt  consolation."  The  world,  he  declared,  was  fallen 
into  disorder,  like  the  hair  of  an  Ethiopian.  Within  the 
city  wall  was  a  people  well  disposed  as  angels ;  without,  a 
band  of  tigers.  After  which  he  asked  if  the  young 
Firengi  were  of  the  company  of  those  who  dug  for  the 
poisoned  water  of  Bakhtiari  Land,  or  whether  perchance 
he  were  of  the  Peopic  of  the  Chain. 


i66  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

These  figures  of  speech  would  have  been  incomprehen- 
sible to  Matthews,  if  Abbas  had  not  hinted  something 
about  oil  rigs.  He  accordingly  confessed  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  either  of  the  two  enterprises.  The 
Father  of  Swords  then  expatiated  on  those  who  caused 
the  Lurs  to  seize  the  hand  of  amazement  with  the  teeth 
of  chagrin,  by  dragging  through  their  valleys  a  long 
chain,  as  if  they  meant  to  take  prisoners.  These  unwel- 
come Firengis  were  also  to  be  known  by  certain  strange 
inventions  on  three  legs,  into  which  they  would  gaze  by 
the  hour.  Were  they  warriors,  threatening  devastation? 
Or  were  they  magicians,  spying  into  the  future  and  laying 
a  spell  upon  the  people  of  Luristan?  Their  account  of 
themselves  the  Father  of  Swords  found  far  from  satis- 
factory, claiming  as  they  did  that  they  proposed  to  build 
a  road  of  iron,  whereby  it  would  be  possible  for  a  man 
to  go  from  Dizful  to  Khorremabad  in  one  day.  For  the 
rest,  what  business  had  the  people  of  Dizful,  too  many  of 
whom  were  Arabs,  in  Khorremabad,  a  city  of  Lurs  ?  Let 
the  men  of  Dizful  remain  in  Dizful,  and  those  of  Khorre- 
mabad continue  where  they  were  born.  As  for  him,  his 
white  mules  needed  no  road  of  iron  to  carry  him  about 
his  affairs. 

Matthews,  recalling  his  own  thoughts  as  he  leaned  over 
the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  spoke  consolingly  to  the  Father 
of  Swords  concerning  the  People  of  the  Chain.  The 
Father  of  Swords  listened  to  him,  drawing  meditatively 
at  his  waterpipe.  He  thereupon  inquired  if  Matthews 
were  acquainted  with  another  friend  of  the  prince  among 
the  merchants  of  Shuster,  himself  a  Firengi  by  birth, 
though  recently  persuaded  of  the  truths  of  Islam;  and 
not  like  this  visitor  of  good  omen,  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
but  bearded  and  hardened  in  battles,  bearing  the  scars  of 
them  on  his  face. 

Matthews  began  to  go  over  in  his  mind  the  short  list 
of  Europeans  he  had  met  on  the  Karun,  till  suddenly 
he  bethought  him  of  that  extraordinary  barge  he  had 
encountered  —  could  it  be  only  a  couple  of  days  ago? 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  167 

"  Magin  Sahib  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  know  him  —  if  he  is 
the  one  who  travels  in  the  river  in  a  mehala  not  like  other 
mehalas,  rowed  by  Lurs." 

" '  That  is  a  musk  which  discloses  itself  by  its  scent, 
and  not  what  the  perfumers  impose  upon  us.'  "  quoted 
the  Father  of  Swords.  "  This  man,"  he  continued,  "  our 
friend  and  the  friend  of  our  friend,  warned  me  that  they 
of  the  chain  are  sons  of  oppression,  destined  to  bring  mis- 
fortune to  the  Lurs.  Surely  my  soul  is  tightened,  not 
knowing  whom  I  may  believe." 

"  Rum  bounder  I "  said  Matthews  to  himself,  as  his 
mind  went  back  to  the  already  mythic  barge,  and  its  fan- 
tastic oarsmen  from  these  very  mountains,  and  its  an- 
tique-hunting, history-citing  master  from  oversea,  who 
quoted  the  Book  of  Genesis  and  who  carried  mysterious 
passengers  with  nose-jewels.  But  our  not  too  articulate 
young  man  was  less  prompt  about  what  he  should  say 
aloud.  He  began  to  find  more  in  this  interview  than 
he  had  expected.  He  was  tickled  at  his  host's  flowery 
forms  of  speech,  and  after  all  rather  sympathized  with 
the  suspicious  old  ruffian,  yet  it  was  not  for  him  to  fail 
in  loyalty  toward  the  "  People  of  the  Chain."  Several 
of  them  he  knew,  as  it  happened,  and  they  had  delighted 
him  with  their  wild  yarns  of  surveying  in  Luristan.  So 
he  managed  no  more  than  to  achieve  an  appearance  of 
slightly  offended  dignity. 

Considering  which,  out  of  those  opaque  eyes,  the  Father 
of  Swords  clapped  those  famous  hands  and  commanded 
a  responsive  black  hat  to  bring  him  his  green  chest.  At 
that  Matthews  pricked  up  interested  ears  indeed.  The 
chest,  however,  when  set  down  in  front  of  the  Father 
of  Swords,  proved  to  be  nothing  at  all  like  the  one  out 
of  which  the  Brazilian  had  taken  his  gold  anklet.  It  was 
quite  small  and  painted  green,  though  quaintly  enough 
provided  with  triple  locks  of  beaten  iron.  The  Father 
of  Swords  unlocked  them  deliberately,  withdrew  from 
an  inner  compartment  a  round  tin  case,  and  from  that 
a  roll  of  parchment  which  he  pressed  to  his  lips  with 


i68  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

infinite    solemnity.     He   then    handed    it    to    Matthews. 

He  was  one,  our  not  too  articulate  young  man,  to  take 
things  as  they  came  and  not  to  require,  even  east  of  Suez, 
the  spice  of  romance  with  his  daily  bread.  His  last 
days,  moreover,  had  been  too  crowded  for  him  to  rumi- 
nate over  their  taste.  But  it  was  not  every  day  that  he 
squatted  on  the  same  rug  with  a  scarlet-bearded  old  cut- 
throat of  a  mountain  chief.  So  it  was  that  his  more  or 
less  casual  lark  visibly  took  on,  from  the  perspective  of 
this  castle  in  Luristan,  as  he  unrolled  a  gaudy  emblazon- 
ment of  eagles  at  the  top  of  the  parchment,  a  new  and 
curious  color.  For  below  the  eagle  he  came  upon  what 
he  darkly  made  out  to  be  a  species  of  treaty,  inscribed 
neither  in  the  Arabic  nor  in  the  Roman  but  in  the  German 
character,  between  the  Father  of  Swords  and  a  more 
notorious  War  Lord.  And  below  that  was  signed,  sealed, 
and  imposingly  paraphed  the  signature  of  one  Julius  Ma- 
gin.  Which  was  indeed  a  novel  aspect  for  a  Brazilian, 
however  versatile,  to  reveal. 

He  permitted  himself,  did  Guy  Matthews,  a  smile. 

"  You  do  not  kiss  it?  "  observed  the  Father  of  Swords. 

"  In  my  country,"  Matthews  began  — 

"  But  it  is,  may  I  be  your  sacrifice,"  interrupted  the 
Father  of  Swords,  "  a  letter  from  the  Shah  of  the  Shahs 
of  the  Firengis."  It  was  evident  that  he  was  both  im- 
pressed and  certain  of  impressing  his  hearer.  "  He  has 
promised  eternal  peace  to  me  and  to  my  people." 

The  Englishman  in  Matthews  permitted  him  a  second 
smile. 

"  The  Father  of  Swords,"  he  said,  "  speaks  a  word 
which  I  do  not  understand.  I  am  a  Fircngi,  but  I  have 
never  heard  of  a  Shah  of  the  Shahs  of  the  Firengis.  In 
the  house  of  Islam  are  there  not  many  who  rule?  In 
Tehran,  for  instance,  there  is  the  young  Ahmed  Shah. 
Then  among  the  Bakhtiaris  there  is  an  Ilkhani,  at  Mo- 
hamera  there  is  the  Sheikh  of  the  Cha'b,  and  in  the  val- 
leys of  Pusht-i-Kuh  none  is  above  the  Father  of  Swords. 
I  do  not  forget,  either,  the  Emirs  of  Mecca  and  Afghanis- 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  169 

tan,  or  the  Sultan  in  Stambul.  And  among  them  what 
Firengi  shall  say  who  is  the  greatest?  And  so  it  is  in 
Firengistan.  Yet  as  for  this  paper,  it  is  written  in  the 
tongue  of  a  king  smaller  than  the  one  whose  subject  I 
am,  whose  crown  has  been  worn  by  few  fathers.  But  the 
name  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper  is  not  his.  It  is  not 
even  a  name  known  to  the  Firengis  when  they  speak 
among  themselves  of  the  great  of  their  lands.  Where 
did  you  see  him?  " 

The  Father  of  Swords  stroked  his  scarlet  beard,  look- 
ing at  his  young  visitor  with  more  of  a  gleam  in  the  dull 
black  of  his  eyes  than  Matthews  had  yet  noticed. 

"  Truly  is  it  said :  '  Fix  not  thy  heart  on  what  is 
transitory,  for  the  Tigris  will  continue  to  flow  through 
Baghdad  after  the  race  of  Caliphs  is  extinct!'  You 
make  it  clear  to  me  that  you  are  of  the  People  of  the 
Chain." 

"  If  I  were  of  the  People  of  the  Chain,"  protested 
Matthews,  "  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  hide  it.  The 
People  of  the  Chain  do  not  steal  secretly  through  the 
valleys  of  Pusht-i-Kuh,  telling  the  Lurs  lies  and  giving 
them  papers  in  the  night.  I  am  not  one  of  the  People  of 
the  Chain.  But  the  king  of  the  People  of  the  Chain  is 
also  my  king.  And  he  is  a  great  king,  lord  of  many  lands 
and  many  seas,  who  has  no  need  of  secret  messengers, 
hostlers  and  scullions  of  whom  no  one  has  heard,  to  per- 
suade strangers  of  his  greatness." 

"  Your  words  do  not  persuade  me !  "  cried  the  Father  of 
Swords.  "  A  wise  man  is  like  a  jar  in  the  house  of  the 
apothecary,  silent  but  full  of  virtues.  If  the  king  who 
sent  me  this  letter  has  such  hostlers  and  such  scullions, 
how  great  must  be  his  khans  and  viziers!  And  why  do 
the  Turks  trust  him?  Why  do  the  other  Firengis  allow 
his  ships  in  Bushir  and  Basra  ?  Or  why  do  not  the  Peo- 
ple of  the  Chain  better  prove  the  character  of  their  lord? 
But  the  hand  of  liberality  is  stronger  than  the  arm  of 
power.  This  king,  against  whom  you  speak,  heard  me 
draw  the  sigh  of  affliction  from  the  bosom  of  uncertainty. 


I70  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

He  deigned  to  regard  me  with  the  eye  of  patronage,  send- 
ing me  good  words  and  promises  of  peace  and  friendship. 
He  will  not  permit  the  house  of  Islam  to  be  troubled. 
From  many  we  have  heard  it." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Matthews.  "  Now  I  understand 
why  you  have  not  kept  your  promises  to  the  People  of 
the  Chain !  "  And  he  rubbed  his  thumb  against  his  fore- 
finger, in  the  gesture  of  the  East  that  sigijifies  the  pay- 
ment of  money. 

"  Why  not  ? "  demanded  the  Father  of  Swords,  an- 
grily. "  The  duty  of  a  king  is  munificence.  Or  why 
should  there  be  a  way  to  pass  through  my  mountains? 
Has  it  ever  been  said  of  the  Lur  that  he  stepped  back  be- 
fore a  stranger?  That  is  for  the  Shah  in  Tehran,  who 
has  become  the  servant  of  the  Russian !  Let  the  People 
of  the  Chain  learn  that  my  neck  does  not  know  how  to 
bow !  And  what  guest  are  you  to  sprinkle  my  sore  with 
the  salt  of  harsh  words  ?  A  boy,  who  comes  here  no  one 
knows  why,  on  hired  horses,  with  only  one  follower  to 
attend  him !  " 

Matthews  flushed. 

"  Salman  Taki  Khan,"  he  retorted,  "  it  is  true  that  I 
come  to  you  humbly,  and  without  a  beard.  And  your 
beard  is  already  white,  and  you  can  call  out  thirty  thou- 
sand men  to  follow  you.  Yet  a  piece  of  gold  will  make 
you  believe  a  lie.  And  I  swear  to  you  that  whether  I 
give  you  back  this  paper  to  put  in  your  chest,  or  whether 
I  spit  on  it  and  tear  it  in  pieces  and  throw  it  to  the  wind 
of  that  valley,  it  is  one." 

To  which  the  Father  of  Swords  made  emphatic  enough 
rejoinder  by  snatching  the  parchment  away,  rising  to  his 
feet,  and  striding  out  of  the  room  without  a  word. 

IV 

The  festivities  in  honor  of  the  Shah's  coronation  took 
place  at  Bala  Bala  with  due  solemnity.  Among  the  black 
tents  there  was  much  plucking  of  plaintive  strings,  there 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  171 

was  more  stuffing  of  mutton  and  pilau,  and  after  dark 
many  little  rockets,  improvized  out  of  gunpowder  and 
baked  clay,  traced  brief  arabesques  of  gold  against  the 
black  of  the  underlying  gorges.  The  castle  celebrated  in 
the  same  simple  way.  The  stuffing,  to  be  sure,  was  more 
prolonged  and  recondite,  while  dancers  imported  from 
Dizful  swayed  and  snapped  their  fingers,  singing  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  Father  of  Swords.  The  eyes  of  that  old 
man  of  the  mountain  remained  opaque  as  ever,  save  when 
he  rebuked  the  almoner  who  sat  at  meat  with  him  for 
indecorously  quoting  the  lines  of  Sadi,  when  he  says: 
"  Such  was  this  delicate  crescent  of  the  moon,  and  fasci- 
nation of  the  holy,  this  form  of  an  angel,  and  decoration 
of  a  peacock,  that  let  them  once  behold  her,  and  con- 
tinence must  cease  to  exist  in  the  constitutions  of  the 
chaste," 

This  rebuke  might  have  been  called  forth  by  the  pres- 
ence of  another  guest  at  the  board.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  eyes  of  the  Father  of  Swords  glimmered  perceptibly 
when  they  rested  on  the  unannounced  visitor  for  whom 
he  fished  out,  with  his  own  henna'ed  fingers,  the  fattest 
morsels  of  mutton  and  the  juiciest  sweets.  I  hasten  to 
add  that  the  newcomer  was  not  the  one  whose  earlier 
arrival  and  interview  with  the  Father  of  Swords  has 
already  been  recorded.  He  was,  nevertheless,  a  person- 
age not  unknown  to  this  record,  whether  as  Senhor  Magin 
of  Brazil  or  as  the  emissary  of  the  Shah  of  the  Shahs  of 
Firengistan.  For  not  only  had  he  felt  impelled  to  bid 
good-by  a  second  time  to  his  friend  Adolf  Ganz,  prince 
among  the  merchants  of  Shustar.  He  had  even  post- 
poned his  voyage  down  the  Karun  long  enough  to  make 
one  more  journey  overland  to  Bala  Bala.  And  he  heard 
there,  not  without  interest,  the  story  of  the  short  visit 
and  the  sudden  flight  of  the  young  Englishman  he  had 
accidentally  met  on  the  river. 

As  for  Matthews,  he  celebrated  the  coronation  at  Diz- 
ful, in  bed.  And  by  the  time  he  had  slept  oflf  his  fag, 
Bala  Bala  and  the  Father  of  Swords  and  the  green  chest 


1/2  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

and  the  ingenious  Magin  looked  to  him  more  than  ever 
like  figures  of  myth.  He  was  too  little  of  the  timber 
out  of  which  journalists,  romancers,  or  diplomats  are 
made  to  take  them  very  seriously.  The  world  he  lived 
in,  moreover,  was  too  solid  to  be  shaken  by  any  such 
flimsy  device  as  the  one  of  which  he  had  happened  to 
catch  a  glimpse.  What  had  been  real  to  him  was  that 
he,  Guy  Matthews,  had  been  suspected  of  playing  a  part 
in  story-book  intrigues,  and  had  been  treated  rudely  by 
an  old  barbarian  of  whom  he  expected  the  proverbial 
hospitality  of  the  East.  His  affair  had  therefore  been  to 
show  Mr.  Scarlet  Beard  that  if  a  Lur  could  turn  his 
back,  an  Englishman  could  do  likewise.  He  now  saw,  to 
be  sure,  that  he  himself  had  not  been  altogether  the  pat- 
tern of  courtesy.  But  the  old  man  of  the  mountain  had 
got  what  was  coming  to  him.  And  Matthews  regretted 
very  little,  after  all,  missing  what  he  had  gone  to  see. 
For  Dizful,  peering  at  him  through  the  arches  of  the 
bridge,  reminded  that  there  was  still  something  to  see. 

It  must  be  said  of  him,  however,  that  he  showed  no 
impatience  to  see  the  neighboring  ruins  of  Susa.  He 
was  not  one,  this  young  man  who  was  out  for  a  bit 
of  a  lark,  to  sentimentalize  about  antiquity  or  the  charm 
of  the  unspoiled.  Yet  even  such  young  men  are  capable 
of  finding  the  rumness  of  strange  towns  a  passable 
enough  lark,  to  say  nothing  of  the  general  unexpectedness 
of  life.  And  Dizful  turned  out  to  be  quite  as  unex- 
pected, in  its  way,  as  Bala  Bala.  Matthews  found  that 
out  before  he  had  been  three  days  in  the  place,  when  a 
sudden  roar  set  all  the  loose  little  panes  tinkling  in  Shir 
Ali  Khan's  garden  windows. 

Abbas  explained  that  this  was  merely  a  cannon  shot, 
announcing  the  new  moon  of  Ramazan.  That  loud  call 
of  the  faith  evidently  made  Dizful  a  rummer  place  than 
it  normally  was.  Matthews  soon  got  used  to  the  daily 
repetitions  of  the  sound,  rumbling  off  at  sunset  and  be- 
fore dawn  into  the  silence  of  the  plains.  But  the  recur- 
ring explosion  became  for  him  the  voice  of  the  particular 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  173 

rumness  of  the  fanatical  old  border  town  —  of  fierce  suns, 
terrific  smells,  snapping  dogs,  and  scowling  people. 
When  the  stranger  without  the  gate  crossed  his  bridge  of 
a  morning  for  a  stroll  in  the  town,  he  felt  like  a  discov- 
erer of  some  lost  desert  city.  He  threaded  alleys  of 
blinding  light,  he  explored  dim  thatched  bazaars,  he 
studied  tiled  doorways  in  blank  mud  walls,  he  investi- 
gated quaint  water-mills  by  the  river,  and  scarce  a  soul 
did  he  see,  unless  a  stork  in  its  nest  on  top  of  a  tall 
badgir  or  a  naked  dervish  lying  in  a  scrap  of  shade 
asleep  under  a  lion  skin.  It  was  as  if  Dizful  drowsed 
sullenly  in  that  July  blaze  brewing  something,  like  a 
geyser,  and  burst  out  with  it  at  the  end  of  the  unendu- 
rable day. 

The  brew  of  the  night,  however,  was  a  different  mix- 
ture, quite  the  rummiest  compound  of  its  kind  Matthews 
had  ever  tasted.  The  bang  of  the  sunset  gun  instantly 
brought  the  deserted  city  back  to  life.  Lights  began  to 
twinkle  —  in  tea  houses,  along  the  river,  among  the  in- 
digo plantations  —  streets  filled  with  ghostly  costumes 
and  jostling  camels,  and  everywhere  voices  would  cele- 
brate the  happy  return  of  dusk  so  strangely  and  pierc- 
ingly that  they  made  Matthews  think  of  "  battles  far 
away."  This  was  most  so  when  he  listened  to  them,  out 
of  sight  of  unfriendly  eyes,  from  his  own  garden.  Above 
the  extraordinary  rumor  that  drifted  to  him  through  the 
arches  of  the  bridge  he  heard  the  wailing  of  pipes, 
raucous  blasts  of  cow  horns,  the  thumping  of  drums ; 
while  dogs  barked  incessantly,  and  all  night  long  the 
caravans  of  Mesopotamia  jingled  to  and  fro.  Then  the 
cannon  would  thunder  out  its  climax,  and  the  city  would 
fall  anew  under  the  spell  of  the  sun. 

The  moon  of  those  Arabian  nights  was  nearing  its 
first  quarter  and  Matthews  was  waiting  for  it  to  become 
bright  enough  for  him  to  fulfill  his  true  duty  as  a  sight- 
seer by  riding  to  the  mounds  of  Susa,  when  Dizful 
treated  Matthews  to  fresh  discoveries  as  to  what  an  un- 
spoiled town  may  contain.     It  contained,  Abbas  informed 


174  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

him  with  some  mystery  after  one  of  his  prolonged 
visits  to  the  bazaar,  another  Hrengi.  This  firengi's  serv- 
ant, moreover,  had  given  Abbas  expHcit  directions  as  to 
the  whereabouts  of  the  firengi's  house,  in  order  that 
Abbas  might  give  due  warning,  as  is  the  custom  of  the 
country,  of  a  call  from  Matthews.  Whereat  Matthews 
made  the  surprising  announcement  that  he  had  not  come 
to  Dizful  to  call  on  firengis.  The  chief  charm  of  Dizful 
for  him,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  that  there  he  felt  him- 
self free  of  the  social  obligations  under  which  he  had 
lain  rather  longer  than  he  liked.  But  if  Abbas  was  able 
to  resign  himself  to  this  new  proof  of  the  eccentricity  of 
his  master,  the  unknown  firengi  apparently  was  not.  At 
all  events,  Matthews  soon  made  another  discovery  as  to 
the  possibilities  of  Dizful.  An  evening  or  two  later,  as 
he  loitered  on  the  bridge  watching  a  string  of  loaded 
camels,  a  respectable-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  black 
aba  addressed  him  in  French.  French  in  Dizful !  And 
it  appeared  that  this  remarkable  Elamite  was  a  Jew, 
who  had  picked  up  in  Baghdad  the  idiom  of  Paris !  He 
went  on  to  describe  himself  as  the  "  agent "  of  a  distin- 
guished foreign  resident,  who.  the  linguistic  old  gentle- 
man gave  Matthews  to  understand,  languished  for  a 
sight  of  the  new-comer,  and  was  unable  to  understand 
why  he  had  not  already  been  favored  with  a  call.  His 
pain  was  the  deeper  because  the  newcomer  had  recently 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  this  distinguished  foreign  resi- 
dent on  a  little  yacht  on  the  river. 

"  The  unmitigated  bounder !  "  exclaimed  Matthews,  un- 
able to  deliver  himself  in  French  of  that  sentiment,  and 
turning  upon  the  stupefied  old  gentleman  a  rude  Anglo- 
Saxon  back.     "  He  has  cheek  enough  for  anything." 

He  had  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  knock  the  next  after- 
noon, unannounced,  on  Matthews'  gate,  to  follow  Mat- 
thews' servant  into  the  house  without  waiting  to  hear 
whether  Matthews  would  receive  him,  to  present  himself 
at  the  door  of  the  dim  underground  serdab  where  Mat- 
thews lounged  in  his  pajamas  till  it  should  be  cool  enough 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  175 

to  go  out,  to  make  Matthews  the  most  ceremonious  of 
bows,  and  to  give  that  young  man  a  half-amused,  half- 
annoyed  consciousness  of  being  put  at  his  ease.  The  ad- 
vantage of  position,  Matthews  had  good  reason  to  feel, 
was  with  himself.  He  knew  more  about  the  bounder 
than  the  bounder  thought,  and  it  was  not  he  who  had 
knocked  at  the  bounder's  gate.  Yet  the  sound  of  that 
knock,  pealing  muffled  through  the  hot  silence,  had  been 
distinctly  welcome.  Nor  could  our  incipient  connoisseur 
of  rum  towns  pretend  that  the  sight  of  Magin  bowing  in 
the  doorway  was  wholly  unwelcome,  so  long  had  he  been 
stewing  there  in  the  sun  by  himself.  What  annoyed  him, 
what  amused  him,  what  in  spite  of  himself  impressed 
him,  was  to  see  how  the  bounder  ignored  advantages  of 
position.  Matthews  had  forgotten,  too,  what  an  impos- 
ing individual  the  bounder  really  was.  And  measuring 
his  tall  figure,  listening  to  his  deep  voice,  looking  at  his 
light  eyes  and  his  two  sinister  scars  and  the  big  shaved 
dome  of  a  head  which  he  this  time  uncovered,  our  cool 
enough  young  man  wondered  whether  there  might  be 
something  more  than  fantastic  about  this  navigator  of 
strange  waters.  It  was  rather  odd,  at  all  events,  how  he 
kept  bobbing  up,  and  what  a  power  he  had  of  quickening 
—  what?  A  school-boyish  sense  of  the  romantic?  Or 
mere  vulgar  curiosity?  For  he  suddenly  found  himself 
aware,  Guy  Matthews,  that  what  he  knew  about  his  vis- 
itor was  less  than  what  he  desired  to  know. 

The  visitor  made  no  haste,  however,  to  volunteer  any 
information.  Nor  did  he  make  of  Matthews  any  but  the 
most  perfunctory  inquiries. 

"And  Monsieur —  What  was  his  name?  Your 
Frenchman?"  he  continued. 

"  Gaston.  He's  not  my  Frenchman,  though,"  replied 
Matthews.     "  He  went  back  long  ago." 

"  Oh !  "  uttered  Magin.  He  declined  the  refreshments 
which  Abbas  at  that  point  produced,  even  to  the  ciga- 
rette Matthews  oflFered  him.  He  merely  glanced  at  the 
make.     Then  he  examined,  with  a  flicker  of  amusement 


176  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

in  his  eyes,  the  bare  white-washed  room.  A  runnel  of 
water  trickled  across  it  in  a  stone  channel  that  widened 
in  the  centre  into  a  shallow  pool.  "A  bit  of  a  lark, 
eh?  I  remember  that  mot  of  yours,  Mr,  Matthews.  To 
sit  steaming,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  dreaming,  in  a  sort 
of  Turkish  bath  in  the  bottom  of  Elam  while  over  there 
in  Europe  — " 

"  Is  there  anything  new  ?  "  asked  Matthews,  recogniz- 
ing his  caller's  habit  of  finishing  a  sentence  with  a  ges- 
ture. "  Archdukes  and  that  sort  of  thing  don't  seem  to 
matter  much  in  Dizful.  I  have  even  lost  track  of  the 
date." 

"  I  would  not  have  thought  an  Englishman  so  —  dolce 
far  niente,"  said  Magin.  "  It  is  perhaps  because  we 
archaeologists  feed  on  dates !  I  happen  to  recollect, 
though,  that  we  first  met  on  the  eighteenth  of  July.  And 
to-day,  if  you  would  like  to  know,  is  Saturday,  the  first 
of  August,  1914."  The  flicker  of  amusement  in  his  eyes 
became  something  more  inscrutable.  "  But  there  is  a 
telegraph  even  in  Elam,"  he  went  on.  "  A  little  news 
trickles  out  of  it  now  and  then.  Don't  you  ever  catch, 
perhaps,  some  echo  of  the  trickle?  " 

"  That's  not  my  idea  of  a  lark,"  laughed  Matthews. 

Magin  regarded  him  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  he  conceded,  "  Europe  does  take  on  a  new 
perspective  from  the  point  of  view  of  Susa,  I  see  you 
are  a  philosopher,  sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires  and 
wisely  preferring  the  trickle  of  your  fountain  to  the 
trickle  of  the  telegraph.  If  Austria  falls  to  pieces,  if 
Serbia  reaches  the  Adriatic,  what  is  that  to  us?  Noth- 
ing but  a  story  that  in  Elam  has  been  told  too  often  to 
have  any  novelty !     Eh  ?  " 

"  Why,"  asked  Matthews,  quickly,  "  is  that  on  al- 
ready?" 

Magin  looked  at  him  again  a  moment  before  answering. 

"  Not  yet !  But  why,"  he  added,  "  do  you  say  al- 
ready?" 

His  voice  had  a  curious  rumble  in  the  dim  stone  room. 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  177 

Matthews  wondered  whether  it  were  because  the  acoustic 
properties  of  a  serdab  in  Dizful  differ  from  those  of  a 
galley  on  the  Karun,  or  whether  there  really  were  some- 
thing new  about  him. 

"  Why,  it's  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later,  isn't  it?  If 
it's  true  that  all  the  way  from  Nish  to  Ragusa  those  chaps 
speak  the  same  language  and  belong  to  the  same  race,  one 
can  hardly  blame  them  for  wanting  to  do  what  the  Ital- 
ians and  the  Germans  have  already  done.  And,  as  a 
philosopher  sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires,  wouldn't 
you  say  yourself  that  Austria  has  bitten  off  rather  more 
than  she  can  chew  ?  " 

"  Very  likely  I  should."  Magin  took  a  cigar  out  of 
his  pocket,  snipped  off  the  end  with  a  patent  cutter, 
lighted  it,  and  regarded  the  smoke  with  a  growing  look 
of  amusement.  "  But,"  he  went  on,  "  as  a  philosopher 
sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires,  I  would  hardly  con- 
fine that  observation  to  Austria-Hungary.  For  instance, 
I  have  heard" — and  his  look  of  amusement  verged  on 
a  smile  — "  of  an  island  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean  not  much 
larger  than  the  land  of  Elam,  an  island  of  rains  and  fogs 
whose  people,  feeling  the  need  of  a  little  more  sunlight 
perhaps,  or  of  pin-money  and  elbow-room,  sailed  away 
and  conquered  for  themselves  two  entire  continents,  as 
well  as  a  good  part  of  a  third.  I  have  also  heard  that 
the  inhabitants  of  this  island,  not  content  with  killing 
and  enslaving  so  many  defenseless  fellow-creatures,  or 
with  picking  up  any  lesser  island,  cape,  or  bay  that  hap- 
ened  to  suit  their  fancy,  took  it  upon  themselves  to  gov- 
ern several  hundred  million  unwilling  individuals  of  all 
colors  and  religions  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  And, 
having  thus  procured  both  sunlight  and  elbow-room, 
those  enterprising  islanders  assumed  a  virtuous  air  and 
pushed  the  high  cries  —  as  our  friend  Gaston  would  say 
—  if  any  of  their  neighbors  ever  showed  the  slightest 
symptom  of  following  their  very  successful  example. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  such  an  island?  And  would 
you  not  say  —  as  a  philosopher  sitting  amidst  the  ruins 


178  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

of  empires  —  that  it  had  also  bitten  off  rather  more  than 
it  could  chew  ?  " 

Matthews,  facing  the  question  and  the  now  open  smile, 
felt  that  he  wanted  to  be  cool,  but  that  he  did  not  alto- 
gether succeed. 

"  I  dare  say  that  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago  we 
did  things  we  wouldn't  do  now.  Times  have  changed  in 
all  sorts  of  ways.  But  we  never  set  out  like  a  Caesar  or 
a  Napoleon  or  a  Bismarck  to  invent  an  empire.  It  all 
came  about  quite  naturally.  Anybody  else  could  have 
done  the  same.  But  nobody  else  thought  of  it  —  at  the 
time.     We  simply  got  there  first." 

"Ah?"  Magin  smiled  more  broadly.  "It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  heard  of  another  island,  not  so  far  from 
here,  which  is  no  more  than  a  pin-point,  to  be  sure,  but 
which  happens  to  be  the  key  of  the  Persian  Gulf.  I 
have  also  heard  that  the  Portuguese  got  there  first,  as 
you  put  it.  But  you  crushed  Portugal,  you  crushed 
Spain,  you  crushed  Holland,  you  crushed  France  —  or 
you  meant  to.  And  I  must  say  it  looks  to  me  as  if  you 
would  not  mind  crushing  Germany.  Why  do  you  go  on 
building  ships,  building  ships,  building  ships,  always  two 
to  Germany's  one?  Simply  that  you  and  your  friends 
can  go  on  eating  up  Asia  and  Africa  —  and  perhaps  Ger- 
many too !  " 

Matthews  noticed  that  the  elder  man  ended,  at  any 
rate,  not  quite  so  coolly  as  he  began. 

"  Nonsense !  The  thing's  so  simple  it  isn't  worth  re- 
peating. We  have  to  have  more  ships  than  anybody  else 
because  our  empire  is  bigger  than  anybody  else's  —  and 
more  scattered.  As  for  eating,  it  strikes  me  that  Ger- 
many has  done  more  of  that  lately  than  any  one.  How- 
ever, if  you  know  so  much  about  islands,  you  must  also 
know  how  we  happened  to  go  into  India  —  or  Egypt. 
In  the  beginning  it  was  pure  accident.  And  you  know 
very  well  that  if  we  left  them  to-morrow  there  would  be 
the  devil  to  pay.     Do  we  get  a  penny  out  of  them?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  laughed  Magin.     "  You  administer  them 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  179 

purely  on  altruistic  principles,  for  their  own  good  and 
that  of  the  world  at  large  —  like  the  oil-wells  of  the 
Karun ! " 

"  Well,  since  you  put  it  that  way,"  laughed  Matthews 
in  turn,  "  perhaps  we  do !  " 

Magin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Extraordinary  people  !  Do  you  really  think  the  rest 
of  the  world  so  stupid?  Or  it  is  that  the  fog  of  your 
island  has  got  into  your  brains?  You  always  talk  about 
truth  as  if  it  were  a  patented  British  invention,  yet  no  one 
is  less  willing  to  call  a  spade  a  spade.  Look  at  Cairo, 
where  you  pretend  to  keep  nothing  but  a  consul-general, 
but  where  the  ruler  of  the  country  can't  turn  over  in  bed 
without  his  permission.  A  consul-general!  Look  at 
your  novels!  Look  at  what  you  yourself  are  saying  to 
me!" 

Matthews  lighted  a  pipe  over  it. 

"  In  a  way,  of  course,  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  am  not  sure  that  we  are  altogether  wrong.  Spades 
exist,  but  there's  no  inherent  virtue  in  talking  about 
them.  In  fact  it's  often  better  not  to  mention  them  at 
all.  There's  something  very  funny  about  words,  you 
know.  They  so  often  turn  out  to  mean  more  than  you 
expected." 

At  that  Magin  regarded  his  companion  with  a  new  in- 
terest. 

"  I  would  not  have  thought  you  knew  that,  at  your  age ! 
But  after  all,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  it  is  a 
woman's  point  of  view.  A  man  ought  to  say  things  out 
—  and  stick  by  them.  He  is  less  likely  to  get  into  trouble 
afterward.  For  example,  it  would  have  been  not  only 
more  honest  but  more  advantageous  for  your  country  if 
you  had  openly  annexed  Egypt  in  the  beginning.  Now 
where  are  you  ?  You  continually  have  to  explain,  and  to 
watch  very  sharply  lest  some  other  consul-general  tell 
the  Khedive  to  turn  over  in  bed.  And  since  you  and  the 
Russians  intend  to  eat  up  Persia,  why  on  earth  don't  you 
do  it  frankly,  instead  of  trying  not  to  frighten  the  Per- 


i8o  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

sians,  and  talking  vaguely  about  spheres  of  influence, 
neutral  zones,  and  what  not?  I'm  afraid  the  truth  is 
that  you're  getting  old  and  fat.  What  ? "  He  glanced 
over  his  cigar  at  Matthews,  who  was  regarding  the 
trickle  of  the  water  beside  them.  "  Those  Russians,  they 
are  younger,"  he  went  on.  "  They  have  still  to  be  reck- 
oned with.  And  they  aren't  so  squeamish,  either  in 
novels  or  in  life.  Look  at  what  they  have  done  in  their 
*  sphere.'  They  have  roads,  they  have  Cossacks,  they 
have  the  Shah  under  their  thumb.  And  whenever  they 
choose  they  shut  the  Baghdad  train  against  your  cara- 
vans —  yours,  with  whom  they  have  an  understanding ! 
A  famous  understanding !  You  don't  even  understand 
how  to  make  the  most  of  your  own  sphere.  You  have 
had  the  Karun  in  your  hands  for  three  hundred  years, 
and  what  have  you  done  with  it?  Why,  in  heaven's 
name,  didn't  you  blast  out  that  rock  at  Ahwaz  long  ago? 
Why  haven't  you  made  a  proper  road  to  Isfahan?  Why 
don't  you  build  that  railroad  to  Khorremabad  that  you 
are  always  talking  about,  and  finish  it  before  the  Ger- 
mans get  to  Baghdad?  Ah!  If  they  had  been  here  in 
your  place  you  would  have  seen !  " 

"  It  strikes  me,"  retorted  Matthews,  with  less  coolness 
than  he  had  yet  shown,  "  that  you  are  here  already  — 
from  what  the  Father  of  the  Swords  told  me."  And  he 
looked  straight  at  the  man  who  had  told  him  that  an 
Englishman  couldn't  call  a  spade  a  spade.  But  he  saw 
anew  how  that  man  could  ignore  an  advantage  of  posi- 
tion. 

Magin  returned  the  look  —  frankly,  humorously,  quiz- 
zically.    Then  he  said : 

"  You  remind  me,  by  the  way,  of  a  question  I  came  to 
ask  you.  Would  you  object  to  telling  me  what  you  are 
up  to  here  ?  " 

"What  am  I  up  to?"  queried  Matthews,  in  astonish- 
ment. The  cheek  of  the  bounder  was  really  beyond 
everything!     "  What  do  you  mean?" 

Magin  smiled. 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  i8i 

"  I  am  not  an  Englishman.     I  mean  what  I  say." 

"  No  you're  not !  "  Matthews  threw  back  at  him.  **  No 
EngHshman  would  try  to  pass  himself  off  for  a  Brazilian." 

Magin  smiled  again. 

"  Nor  would  a  German  jump  too  hastily  at  conclusions. 
If  I  told  you  I  was  from  Brazil,  I  spoke  the  truth.  I 
was  born  there,  as  were  many  Englishmen  I  know. 
That  makes  them  very  little  less  English,  and  it  has  per- 
haps made  me  more  German.  Who  knows?  As  a  phi- 
losopher sitting  with  you  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires  I 
am  at  least  inclined  to  believe  that  we  take  our  mother 
country  more  seriously  than  you  do  yours!  But  to  re- 
turn to  our  point :  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I'm  attending  to  my  business.  Which  seems  to  me 
more  than  you  are  doing,  ]\Ir.  Magin." 

Matthews  noticed,  from  the  reverberation  of  the  room, 
that  his  voice  must  have  been  unnecessarily  loud.  He 
busied  himself  with  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  As  for  Magin, 
he  got  up  and  began  walking  to  and  fro,  drawing  at  his 
cigar.  The  red  of  it  showed  how  much  darker  the  room 
had  been  growing.  It  increased,  too,  the  curious  effect 
of  his  eyes.  They  looked  like  two  empty  holes  in  a 
mask. 

"  Eh,  too  bad !  "  sighed  the  visitor  at  last.  "  You 
disappoint  me.  Do  you  know  ?  You  are,  of  course, 
much  younger  than  I ;  but  you  made  me  hope  that  you 
were  perhaps  —  how  shall  I  put  it?  —  a  spirit  of  the 
first  class.  I  hoped  that  without  padding,  without 
rancor,  like  true  philosophers,  we  might  exchange  our 
points  of  view.  However  —  Since  it  suits  you  to  stand 
on  your  dignity,  I  must  say  that  I  am  very  distinctly  at- 
tending to  my  business.  And  I  am  obliged  to  add  that 
it  does  not  help  my  business,  Mr.  Matthews,  to  have  you 
sitting  so  mysteriously  in  Dizful  —  and  refusing  to  call 
on  me,  but  occasionally  calling  on  nomad  chiefs.  I  con- 
fess that  you  don't  look  to  me  like  a  spy.  Spies  are 
generally  older  men  than  you,  more  cooked,  as  Gaston 
would  say,  more  fluent  in  languages.     It  does  not  seem 


i82  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

to  me,  either,  that  even  an  English  spy  would  go  about 
his  affairs  quite  as  you  have  done.  Still,  I  regret  to 
have  to  repeat  that  I  dislike  your  idea  of  a  lark.  And 
not  only  because  you  upset  nomad  chiefs.  You  upset 
other  people  as  well.  You  might  even  end  up  by  up- 
setting yourself." 

"  Who  the  devil  are  you  ?  "  demanded  Matthews,  hotly. 
"  The  Emperor  of  Elam?  "    > 

"  Ha !  I  see  you  are  acquainted  with  the  excellent 
Adolf  Ganz !  "  laughed  Magin.  "  No,"  he  went  on  in 
another  tone.  "  His  viceroy,  perhaps.  But  as  I  was 
saying,  it  does  not  suit  me  to  have  you  stopping  here. 
I  can  see,  however,  that  you  have  reason  to  be  surprised, 
possibly  annoyed,  at  my  telling  you  so.  I  am  willing  to 
be  reasonable  about  it.  How  much  do  you  want  —  for 
the  expenses  of  your  going  away  ?  " 

Matthews  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  He  got  up  in 
turn. 

"  What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Matthews,"  answered  the  other, 
slowly,  "  that  my  knowledge  of  your  language  does  not 
permit  me  to  make  myself  clear  to  you.  Perhaps  you 
will  understand  me  better  if  I  quote  from  yourself.  I 
got  here  first.  Did  you  ever  put  your  foot  into  this 
country  until  two  weeks  ago?  Did  your  countrymen 
ever  trouble  themselves  about  it,  even  after  Layard 
showed  them  the  way?  No!  They  expressly  left  it 
outside  of  their  famous  *  sphere,'  in  that  famous  neutral 
zone.  And  all  these  centuries  it  has  been  lying  here  in 
the  sun,  asleep,  forgotten,  deserted,  lost,  given  over  to 
nomads  and  to  lions  —  until  I  came.  I  am  the  first 
European  since  Alexander  the  Great  who  has  seen  what 
it  might  be.  It  is  not  so  impossible  that  I  might  open 
again  those  choked-up  canals  which  once  made  these 
burnt  plains  a  paradise.  In  those  mountains  I  have 
found  —  what  I  have  found.  What  right  have  you  to 
interfere  with  me,  who  are  only  out  for  a  lark?    Or 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  183 

what  right  have  your  countrymen?  They  have  already, 
as  you  so  gracefully  express  it,  bitten  off  so  much  more 
than  they  can  chew.  The  Gulf,  the  Karun,  the  oil-wells 
—  they  are  yours.  Take  them.  But  Baghdad  is  ours : 
if  not  today,  then  tomorrow.  And  if  you  will  exercise 
that  logical  process  of  which  your  British  mind  appears 
to  be  not  altogether  destitute,  you  can  hardly  help  seeing 
that  this  part  of  your  famous  neutral  zone,  if  not  the 
whole  of  it,  falls  into  the  sphere  of  Baghdad.  You  know, 
too,  that  we  do  things  more  thoroughly  than  you.  There- 
fore I  must  very  respectfully  but  very  firmly  ask  you,  at 
your  very  earliest  convenience,  to  leave  Dizful.  I  am 
quite  willing  to  believe,  however,  that  your  interference 
with  my  arrangements  was  accidental.  And  I  dislike  to 
put  you  to  any  unnecessary  trouble.  So  I  shall  be  happy 
to  compensate  you,  in  marks,  tomans,  or  pounds  sterling, 
for  any  disappointment  you  may  feel  in  bringing  this 
particular  lark  to  an  end.  Do  you  now  understand  me? 
How  much  do  you  want  ?  " 

He  perceived,  Guy  Matthews,  that  his  lark  had  indeed 
taken  an  unexpected  turn.  He  was  destined,  far  sooner 
than  he  dreamed,  to  be  asked  of  life,  and  to  answer,  ques- 
tions even  more  direct  than  this.  But  until  now  life  had 
chosen  to  confront  him  with  no  problem  more  pressing 
than  one  of  cricket  or  hunting.  He  was  therefore  trou- 
bled by  an  unwonted  confusion  of  feelings.  P'or  he  felt 
that  his  ordinary  vocabulary  —  made  up  of  such  substan- 
tives as  lark,  cheek,  and  bounder,  and  the  comprehensive 
adjective  *'  rum  " —  fell  short  of  coping  with  this  extraor- 
dinary speech.  He  even  felt  that  he  might  possibly  have 
answered  in  a  different  way,  but  for  that  unspeakable 
offer  of  money.  And  the  rumble  of  Magin's  bass  in  the 
dark  stone  room  somehow  threw  a  light  on  the  melan- 
choly land  without,  somehow  gave  him  a  dim  sense  that 
he  did  not  answer  for  himself  alone  —  that  he  answered 
for  the  tradition  of  Layard  and  Rawlinson  and  Morier 
and   Sherley,   of   Clive  and   Kitchener,   of   Drake   and 


i84  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

Raleigh  and  Nelson,  of  all  the  adventurous  young  men 
of  that  beloved  foggy  island  at  which  this  pseudo-Bra- 
zilian jeered. 

"  When  I  first  met  you  in  the  river,  Mr.  Magin,"  he 
said,  quietly,  "  I  confess  I  did  not  realize  how  much  of 
the  spoils  of  Susa  you  were  carrying  away  in  your  chests. 
And  I  didn't  take  your  gold  anklet  as  a  bribe,  though  I 
didn't  take  you  for  too  much  of  a  gentleman  in  offering 
it  to  me.  But  all  I  have  to  say  now  is  that  I  shall  stay  in 
Dizf ul  as  long  as  I  please  —  and  that  you  had  better 
clear  out  of  this  house  unless  you  want  me  to  kick  you 
out." 

"  Heroics,  eh  ?  You  obstinate  little  fool !  I  could 
choke  you  with  one  hand !  " 

"  You'd  better  try !  "  shouted  Matthews. 

He  started  in  spite  of  himself  when  a  muffled  boom 
suddenly  answered  him,  jarring  even  the  sunken  walls  of 
the  room.  Then  he  remembered  that  voice  of  the  drows- 
ing city,  bursting  out  with  the  pent-up  brew  of  the  day. 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Magin  strangely  —  "  The  cannon 
speaks  at  last !  You  will  hear,  beside  your  fountain,  what 
it  has  to  say.  That,  at  any  rate,  you  will  perhaps  under- 
stand—  you  and  the  people  of  your  island."  Hfe  stopped 
a  moment.  "  But,"  he  went  on,  "  if  some  fasting  dervish 
knocks  you  on  the  head  with  his  mace,  or  sticks  his  knife 
into  your  back,  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you !  " 

And  the  echo  of  his  receding  stamp  in  the  corridor 
drowned  for  a  moment  the  trickle  of  the  invisible  water. 

V 

The  destiny  of -some  men  lies  coiled  within  them,  in- 
visible as  the  blood  of  their  hearts  or  the  stuff  of  their 
will,  working  darkly,  day  by  day  and  year  after  year,  for 
their  glory  or  for  their  destruction.  The  destiny  of  other 
men  is  an  accident,  a  god  from  the  machine  or  an  enemy 
in  ambush.  Such  was  the  destiny  of  Guy  Matthews,  as  it 
was  of  how  many  other  unsuspecting  young  men  of  his 
time.     It  would  have  been  inconceivable  to  him,  as  he 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  185 

stood  in  his  dark  stone  room  listening  to  Magin's  reced- 
ing stamp,  that  anything  could  make  him  do  what  Magin 
demanded.  Yet  something  did  it  —  the  last  drop  of  the 
strange  essence  Dizful  had  been  brewing  for  him. 

The  letter  that  accomplished  this  miracle  came  to  him 
by  the  hand  of  a  Bakhtiari  from  Meidan-i-Naft.  It  said 
very  little.  It  said  so  little,  and  that  little  so  briefly,  that 
Matthews,  still  preoccupied  with  his  own  quarrel,  at  first 
saw  no  reason  why  a  stupid  war  on  the  Continent,  and 
the  consequent  impossibility  of  telegraphing  home  except 
by  way  of  India,  should  affect  the  oil-works,  or  why  his 
friends  should  put  him  in  the  position  of  showing  Magin 
the  white  feather.  But  as  he  turned  over  the  Bakhtiari's 
scrap  of  paper  the  meaning  of  it  grew,  in  the  light  of  the 
very  circumstances  that  made  him  hesitate,  so  porten- 
tously that  he  sent  Abbas  for  horses.  And  before  the 
Ramazan  gun  boomed  again  he  was  well  oniiis  way  back 
to  Meidan-i-Naft. 

There  was  something  unreal  to  him  about  that  night 
ride  eastward  across  the  dusty  moonlit  plain.  He  never 
forgot  that  night.  The  unexpectedness  of  it  was  only  a 
part  of  the  unreality.  What  pulled  him  up  short  was  a 
new  quality  in  the  general  unexpectedness  of  life.  Life 
had  always  been,  like  the  trip  from  which  he  was  return- 
ing, more  or  less  of  a  lark.  Whereas  it  suddenly  ap- 
peared that  life  might,  perhaps,  be  very  little  of  a  lark. 
So  far  as  he  had  ever  pictured  life  to  himself  he  had  seen 
it  as  an  extension  of  his  ordered  English  countryside,  be- 
set by  no  hazard  more  searching  than  a  hawthorne  hedge. 
But  the  plain  across  which  he  rode  gave  him  a  new  picture 
of  it,  lighted  romantically  enough  by  the  moon,  yet  offer- 
ing a  rider  magnificent  chances  to  break  his  neck  in  some 
invisible  nullah,  if  not  to  be  waylaid  by  marauding  Lurs 
or  lions.  It  even  began  to  come  to  this  not  too  articulate 
young  man  that  romance  and  reality  might  be  the  same 
thing,  romance  being  what  happens  to  the  other  fellow 
and  reality  being  what  happens  to  you.  He  looked  up  at 
the  moon  of  war  that  had  been  heralded  to  him  by  cannon 


i86  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

and  tried  to  imagine  what,  under  that  same  moon  far 
away  in  Europe,  was  happening  to  the  other  fellow.  For 
it  was  entirely  on  the  cards  that  it  might  also  happen  to 
him,  Guy  Matthews,  who  had  gone  up  the  Ab-i-Diz  for  a 
lark!  That  his  experience  had  an  extraordinary  air  of 
having  happened  to  some  one  else,  as  he  went  back  in  his 
mind  to  his  cruise  on  the  river,  his  meeting  with  the 
barge,  his  first  glimpse  of  Dizful,  the  interlude  of  Bala 
Bala,  the  return  to  Dizful,  the  cannon,  Magin.  Magin! 
He  was  extraordinary  enough,  in  all  conscience,  as 
Matthews  tried  to  piece  together,  under  his  romantic- 
realistic  moon,  the  various  unrelated  fragments  his  mem- 
ory produced  of  that  individual,  connoisseur  of  Greek 
kylixes  and  Lur  nose-jewels,  quoter  of  Scripture  and 
secret  agent. 

The  bounder  must  have  known,  as  he  sat  smoking  his 
cigar  and  ironizing  on  the  ruins  of  empires,  that  the  safe 
and  settled  little  world  to  which  they  both  belonged  was 
already  in  a  blaze.  Of  course  he  had  known  it  —  and  he 
had  said  nothing  about  it!  But  not  least  extraordinary 
was  the  way  the  bounder,  whom  after  all  Matthews  had 
only  seen  twice,  seemed  to  color  the  whole  adventure.  In 
fact,  he  had  been  the  first  speck  in  the  blue,  the  fore- 
runner—  if  Matthews  had  only  seen  it  —  of  the  more 
epic  adventure  into  which  he  was  so  quickly  to  be  caught. 

At  Shuster  he  broke  his  journey.  There  were  still 
thirty  miles  to  do,  and  fresh  horses  were  to  be  hired  —  of 
some  fasting  charvadar  who  would  never  consent  in  Ra- 
mazan,  Matthews  very  well  knew,  to  start  for  Meidan-i- 
Naft  under  the  terrific  August  sun.  But  he  was  not  un- 
grateful for  a  chance  to  rest.  He  discovered  in  himself, 
too,  a  sudden  interest  in  all  the  trickle  of  the  telegraph. 
And  he  was  anxious  to  pick  up  what  news  he  could  from 
the  few  Europeans  in  the  town.  Moreover,  he  needed  to 
see  Ganz  about  the  replenishing  of  his  money-bag;  for 
not  the  lightest  item  of  the  traveler's  pack  in  Persia  is  his 
load  of  silver  krans. 

At  the  telegraph  office  Matthews  ran  into  Ganz  him- 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  187 

self.  The  Swiss  was  a  short,  fair,  faded  man,  not  too  neat 
about  his  white  clothes,  with  a  pensive  mustache  and  an 
ambiguous  blue  eye  that  lighted  at  sight  of  the  young  Eng- 
lishman. The  light,  however,  was  not  one  to  illuminate. 
Matthews'  darkness  in  the  matter  of  news.  What  news 
trickled  out  of  the  local  wire  was  very  meager  indeed. 
The  Austrians  were  shelling  Belgrade,  the  Germans,  the 
Russians,  and  the  French  had  gone  in.  That  was  all. 
No,  not  quite  all ;  for  the  bank-rate  in  England  had  sud- 
denly jumped  sky-high  —  higher,  at  any  rate,  than  it  had 
ever  jumped  before.  And  even  Shuster  felt  the  distant 
commotion,  in  that  the  bazaar  had  already  seen  fit  to  put 
up  the  price  of  sugar  and  petroleum.  Not  that  Shuster 
showed  any  outward  sign  of  commotion  as  the  two 
threaded  their  way  toward  Ganz's  house.'  The  deserted 
streets  reminded  Matthews  strangely  of  Dizful.  What 
was  stranger  was  to  find  how  they  reminded  him  of  a 
chapter  that  is  closed.  He  hardly  noticed  the  blank  walls, 
the  archways  of  brick  and  tile,  the  tall  hadgirs,  even  the 
filth  and  smells.  But  strangest  was  it  to  listen  to  the  hot 
silence,  to  look  up  at  the  brilliant  stripe  of  blue  between 
the  adobe  walls,  while  over  there  — ! 

The  portentous  uncertainty  of  what  might  be  over 
there  made  his  answers  to  Ganz's  questions  about  his 
journey  curt  and  abstracted.  He  gave  no  explanation  of 
his  failure  to  see  the  celebration  at  Bala  Bala  and  the 
ruins  of  Susa,  which  Ganz  supposed  to  be  the  chief  objects 
of  his  excursion.  Yet  he  found  himself  looking  with  a 
new  eye  at  the  anornalous  exile  whom  the  Father  of 
Swords  called  the  prince  among  the  merchants  of  Shus- 
ter, noting  the  faded  untidy  air  as  he  had  never  noted  it 
before,  wondering  why  a  man  should  bury  himself  in  such 
a  hole  as  this.  Was  one  now,  he  speculated,  to  look  at 
everybody  all  over  again?  He  was  not  the  kind  of  man, 
Ganz,  to  interest  the  Guy  Matthews  who  had  gone  to  Diz- 
ful. But  it  was  the  Guy  Matthews  who  came  back  from 
Dizful  who  didn't  like  Ganz's  name  or  Ganz's  good 
enough  accent.     Nevertheless  he  yielded  to  Ganz's  insist- 


i88  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

ence,  when  they  reached  the  office  and  the  money-bag 
had  been  restored  to  its  normal  portUness,  that  the  traveler 
should  step  into  the  house  to  rest  and  cool  off. 

*'  Do  come !  "  urged  the  Swiss.  "  1  so  seldom  see  a 
civilized  being.  And  I  have  a  new  piano !  "  he  threw  in 
as  an  added  inducement.     "  Do  you  play  ?  " 

He  had  no  parlor  tricks,  he  told  Ganz,  and  he  told  him- 
self that  he  wanted  to  get  on.  But  Ganz  had  been  very 
decent  to  him,  after  all.  And  he  began  to  perceive  that 
he  himself  was  extremely  tired.  So  he  followed  Ganz 
through  the  cloister  of  the  pool  to  the  court  where  the 
great  basin  glittered  in  the  sun,  below  the  pillared  portico. 

"Who  is  that?"  exclaimed  Ganz  suddenly.  "What 
a  tone,  eh  ?     And  what  a  touch !  " 

Matthews  heard  from  Ganz's  private  quarters  a  well- 
ing of  music  so  different  from  the  pipes  and  cow-horns  of 
Dizful  that  it  gave  him  a  sudden  stab  of  homesickness. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  brightening,  "  could  it  be  any  of  the 
fellows  from  Meidan-i-Naft?  " 

The  ambiguous  blue  eye  brightened  too. 

"  Perhaps  !  It  is  the  river  music  from  Rheingold.  But 
listen,"  Ganz  added  with  a  smile.  "  There  are  sharks 
among  the  Rhine  maidens !  " 

They  went  on,  up  the  steps  of  the  portico,  to  the  door 
which  Ganz  opened  softly,  stepping  aside  for  his  visitor  to 
pass  in.  The  room  was  so  dark,  after  the  blinding  light 
of  the  court,  that  Matthews  saw  nothing  at  first.  He 
stepped  forward  eagerly,  feeling  his  way  among  Ganz's 
tables  and  chairs  toward  the  end  of  the  room  from  which 
the  music  came.  They  gave  him,  the  cluttering  tables 
and  chairs,  after  the  empty  rooms  he  had  been  living  in, 
a  sharper  renewal  of  his  stab.  And  even  a  piano  — ! 
It  made  him  think  of  Kipling  and  the  Song  of  the  Banjo: 

"  I  am  memory  and  torment  —  I  am  Town ! 
I  am  all  that  ever  went  with  evening  dress !  " 

But  what  mute  inglorious  Paderewski  of  the  restricted 
circle  he  had  moved  in  for  the  past  months  ^yas  capable 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  189 

of  such  parlor  tricks  as  this?  Then,  suddenly,  he  saw. 
He  saw,  swaying  back  and  forth  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  piano,  a  domed  shaven  head  that  made  him 
stop  short  —  that  head  full  of  so  many  astounding 
things !  He  saw,  traveling  swiftly  up  and  down  the  keys, 
rising  above  them  to  an  extravagant  height  and  pouncing 
down  upon  them  again,  those  predatory  hands  that  had 
pounced  en  the  spoils  of  Susa !  They  began,  in  a  mo- 
ment, to  flutter  lightly  over  the  upper  end  of  the  keyboard. 
It  was  extraordinary  what  a  ripple  poured  as  if  out  of 
those  hands.  Magin  himself  bent  over  to  listen  to  the 
ripple,  partly  showing  his  face  as  he  turned  his  ear  to  the 
keys.  He  showed,  too,  in  the  lessening  gloom,  a  smile 
Matthews  had  never  seen  before,  more  extraordinary 
than  anything.  Yet  even  as  Matthews  watched  it,  in  his 
stupefaction,  the  smile  changed,  broadened,  hardened. 
And  Magin,  sitting  up  straight  again  with  his  back  to  the 
room,  began  to  execute  a  series  of  crashing  chords. 

After  several  minutes  he  stopped  and  swung  around 
on  the  piano-stool.  Ganz  clapped  his  hands,  shouting 
"  Bis  !  Bis  !  "  At  that  Magin  rose,  bowed  elaborately, 
and  kissed  his  hands  right  and  left.  He  ended  by  pull- 
ing up  a  table-cover  near  him,  gazing  intently  under  the 
table. 

"Have  you  lost  something?"  inquired  Ganz. 

"  I  seem,"  answered  Magin,  "  to  have  lost  half  my 
audience.  What  has  become  of  our  elusive  English 
friend?  Am  I  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  been  unable  to 
satisfy  his  refined  ear?  Or  can  it  be  that  his  emotions 
were  too  much  for  him  ?  " 

"  He  was  in  a  hurry,"  explained  Ganz.  "  He  is  just 
back  from  Dizful,  you  know." 

"  Ah  ?  "  uttered  Magin.  "  He  is  a  very  curious  young 
man.  He  is  always  in  a  hurry.  He  was  in  a  hurry  the 
first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him.  He  was 
in  such  a  hurry  at  Bala  Bala  that  he  didn't  wait  to  see 
the  celebration  which  you  told  me  he  went  to  see.  He 
also  left  Dizful  in  a  surprising  hurry,  from  what  I  hear. 


190  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

I  happen  to  know  that  the  telegraph  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I  can  only  conclude  that  some  one  frightened 
him  away.  Where  do  you  suppose  he  hurries  to?  And 
do  you  think  he  will  arrive  in  time  ?  " 

Ganz  opened  his  mouth ;  but  if  he  intended  to  say  some- 
thing, he  decided  instead  to  draw  his  hand  across  his 
spare  jaw.     However,  he  did  speak  after  all. 

"  I  notice  that  you  at  least  do  not  hurry,  Majesty !  Do 
you  fiddle  while  Rome  burns  ?  " 

"  Ha !  "  laughed  Magin.  "  It  is  not  Rome  that  burns  I 
And  I  notice,  Mr.  Ganz,  that  you  seem  to  be  of  a  forget- 
ful as  well  as  of  an  inquiring  disposition.  I  would  have 
been  in  Mohamera  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
son  of  Papa,  with  his  interest  in  unspoiled  towns.  I 
will  thank  you  to  issue  no  more  letters  to  the  Father  of 
Swords  without  remembering  me.  Do  you  wish  to  enrich 
the  already  overstocked  British  Museum  at  my  expense? 
But  I  do  not  mind  revealing  to  you  that  I  am  now  really 
on  my  way  to  Mohamera." 

"  H'm,"  let  out  Ganz  slowly.  "  My  dear  fellow,  haven't 
you  heard  that  there  is  a  war  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  I  must  confess,  my  good  Ganz,  that  I  have.  But 
what  has  Europe  to  do  with  Mohamera?" 

"  God  knows,"  said  Ganz.  "  I  should  think,  however, 
since  you  are  so  far  from  the  Gulf,  that  you  would 
prefer  the  route  of  Baghdad  —  now  that  French  and 
Russian  cruisers  are  seeking  whom  they  may  devour." 

"  You  forget,  Mr.  Ganz,  that  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to 
possess  a  number  of  valuable  objects  of  virtue.  I  would 
think  twice  before  attempting  to  carry  those  objects  of 
virtue  through  the  country  of  our  excellent  friends  the 
Beni  Lam  Arabs !  " 

Ganz  laughed. 

"  Your  objects  of  virtue  could  very  well  be  left  with 
me.     What  if  the  English  should  go  into  the  war?  " 

"The  English?  Go  into  the  war?  Never  fear!  This 
is  not  their  affair.  And  if  it  were,  what  could  they  do? 
Sail  their  famous  ships  up  the  Rhine  and  the  Elbe  ?     Be- 


H,  G.  DWIGHT  191 

sides,  that  treacherous  memory  of  yours  seems  to  fail 
you  again.     This  is  Persia,  not  England." 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  Ganz.  "  But  the  English  are 
very  funny  people.  There  is  a  rumor,  you  know,  of 
pourparlers.  What  if  you  were  to  sail  down  to  the  gulf 
and  some  little  midshipman  were  to  fire  a  shot  across 
your  bow  ?  " 

"  Ah,  bah !  I  am  a  neutral !  And  Britannia  is  a  fat  old 
woman !  Also  a  rich  one,  who  doesn't  put  her  hand  into 
her  pocket  to  please  her  .neighbors.  Besides,  I  have  a 
little  affair  with  the  Sheikh  of  Mohamera  —  objects  of 
virtue,  indigo,  who  knows  what?  As  you  know,  I  am  a 
versatile  man."  And  swinging  around  on  his  stool, 
Magin  began  to  play  again. 

"  But  even  fat  old  women  sometimes  know  how  to 
bite,"  objected  Ganz. 

"  Not  when  their  teeth  have  dropped  out,"  Magin 
threw  over  his  shoulder  —  "  or  when  strong  young  men 
plug  their  jaws !  " 

VI 

Two  days  later,  or  not  quite  three  days  later,  the  gal- 
ley and  the  motor-boat  whose  accidental  encounter 
brought  about  the  events  of  this  narrative  met  again. 
This  second  meeting  took  place  in  the  Karun,  as  before, 
but  at  a  point  some  fifty  or  sixty  miles  below  Bund-i-Kir. 
And  now  the  moon,  not  the  sun,  cast  its  paler  glitter  be- 
tween the  high  dark  banks  of  the  stream.  It  was  a  keen- 
eared  young  Lur  who  first  heard  afar  the  pant  of  the  mys- 
terious jinni.  Before  he  or  his  companions  descried  the 
motor-boat,  however,  Gaston,  rounding  a  sharp  curve 
above  the  island  of  Umm-un-Nakhl,  caught  sight  of  the 
sweeps  of  the  barge  flashing  in  the  moonlight.  The  un- 
expected view  of  that  flash  was  not  disagreeable  to  Gas- 
ton. For,  as  Gaston  put  it  to  himself,  he  was  sad  — 
despite  the  efforts  of  his  friend,  the  telegraph  operator  at 
Ahwaz,  to  cheer  him  up.     It  is  true  that  the  operator, 


192  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

who  was  Irish  and  a  man  of  heart,  had  accorded  him 
but  a  Hmited  amount  of  cheer,  together  with  hard  words 
not  a  few.  RecaUing  them,  Gaston  picked  up  a  knife  that 
lay  on  the  seat  beside  him  —  an  odd  curved  knife  of  the 
country,  in  a  leather  sheath.  There  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  conceal  the  fact  that  this  knife  was  a  gift  from 
Gaston's  Bakhtiari  henchman,  who  had  presented  it  to 
Gaston,  with  immense  solemnity,  on  hearing  that  there 
was  a  war  in  Firengistan  and  that  the  young  men  of  the 
oil  works  were  going  to  it.  What  had  become  of  that 
type  of  a  Bakhtiari,  Gaston  wondered?  Then,  spying  the 
flash  of  those  remembered  oars,  he  bethought  him  of  the 
seigneur  of  a  Brazilian  whose  hospitable  yacht,  he  had 
reason  to  know,  was  not  destitute  of  cheer. 

When  he  was  near  enough  the  barge  to  make  out  the 
shadow  of  the  high  beak  on  the  moonlit  water  he  cut  off 
the  motor.  The  sweeps  forthwith  ceased  to  flash.  Gas- 
ton then  called  out  the  customary  salutation.  It  was  an- 
swered, as  before,,  by  the  deep  voice  of  the  Brazilian. 
He  stood  at  the  rail  of  the  barge  as  the  motor-boat  glided 
alongside. 

"  Ah,  mon  vieux,  you  are  alone  this  time?  "  said  Magin 
genially.     "  Where  are  the  others  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  figure  to  myself,"  answered  Gaston,  "  that 
you  derange  yourself  to  inquire  for  my  sacred  devil  of  a 
Bakhtiari,  who  has  taken  the  key  of  the  fields.  As  for 
Monsieur  Guy,  the  Englishman  you  saw  the  other  time, 
whose  name  does  not  pronounce  itself,  he  has  gone  to 
the  war.  I  just  took  him  and  three  others  to  Ahwaz, 
where  they  meet  more  of  their  friends  and  all  go  together 
on  the  steamer  to  Mohamera." 

"Really!  And  did  you  hear  any  news  at  Ahwaz?" 
"  The  latest  is  that  England  has  declared  war." 
"  Tiens !  "  exclaimed  Alagin.  His  voice  was  extraor- 
dinarily loud  and  deep  in  the  stillness  of  the  river.  It 
impressed  Gaston,  who  sat  looking  up  at  the  dark  figure 
in  front  of  the  ghostly  Lurs.  What  types,  with  their 
black  hats  of  a  theater!     He  hoped  the  absence  of  M'sieu 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  193 

Guy  and  the  Brazilian's  evident  surprise  would  not  cloud 
the  latter's  hospitality.  He  was  accordingly  gratified  to 
hear  the  Brazilian  say,  after  a  moment :  "  And  they  tell 
us  that  madness  is  not  catching!  But  we,  at  least,  have 
not  lost  our  heads.  Eh  ?  To  prove  it,  Monsieur  Gaston, 
will  you  not  come  aboard  a  moment,  if  you  are  not  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry,  and  drink  a  little  glass  with  me?  " 

Gaston  needed  no  urging.  In  a  trice  he  had  tied  his 
boat  to  the  barge  and  was  on  the  deck.  The  agreeable 
Brazilian  was  not  too  much  of  a  seigneur  to  shake  his 
hand  in  welcome,  or  to  lead  him  into  the  cabin  where  a 
young  Lur  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  candles. 

"  It  is  so  hot,  and  so  many  strange  beasts  fly  about  this 
river,"  Magin  explained,  "  that  I  usually  prefer  to  travel 
without  a  light.  But  we  must  see  the  way  to  our  mouths ! 
What  will  you  have  ?  Beer  ?  Bordeaux  ?  Cham- 
pagne ?  " 

Gaston  considered  this  serious  question  with  attention. 

"  Since  Monsieur  has  the  goodness  to  inquire,  if  Mon- 
sieur has  any  of  that  fine  champagne  1*  tasted  before — " 

"  Ah  yes !  Certainly."  And  he  gave  a  rapid  order  to 
the.  Lur.  Then  he  stood  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
reed  portiere.  Gaston  was  more  impressed  than  ever  as 
he  stood  too,  beret  in  hand,  looking  around  the  little 
saloon,  so  oddly,  yet  so  comfortably  fitted  out  with  rugs 
and  skins.  Presently  the  Lur  reappeared  through  the 
reed  portiere,  which  aroused  the  Brazilian  from  his  ab- 
straction. He  filled  the  two  glasses  himself,  waving  his 
attendant  out  of  the  cabin,  and  handed  one  to  Gaston. 
The  other  he  raised  in  the  air,  bowing  to  his  guest,  "  To 
the  victor ! "  he  said.  "  And  sit  down,  won't  you  ? 
There  is  more  than  one  glass  in  that  bottle." 

Gaston  was  enchanted  to  sit  down  and  to  sip  another 
cognac. 

"  But,  Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  looking  about  again, 
"  you  travel  like  an  emperor !  " 

"  Ho !  "  laughed  Magin,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Gaston. 
"  I  am  well  enough  here.     But  there  is  one  difficulty.'^ 


154  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

He  looked  at  his  glass,  holding  it  up  to  the  light.  "  I 
travel  too  slowly." 

Gaston  smiled. 

"  In  Persia,  who  cares  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  happens  that  at  this  moment  I  do.  I  have 
affairs  at  Mohamera.  And  in  this  tub  it  will  take  me 
three  days  more  at  the  best  —  without  considering  that 
I  shall  have  to  wait  till  daylight  to  get  through  the  rocks 
at  Ahwaz."  He  lowered  his  glass  and  looked  back  at 
Gaston.  "  Tell  me :  Why  shouldn't  you  take  me  down, 
ahead  of  my  tub?  Eh?  Or  to  Sablah,  if  Mohamera  is 
too  far?  It  would  not  delay  you  so  much,  after  all. 
You  can  tell  them  any  story  you  like  at  Sheleilieh.  Oth- 
erwise I  am  sure  we  can  make  a  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment."    He  put  his  hand  suggestively  into  his  pocket. 

Gaston  considered  it  between  sips.  It  really  was  not 
much  to  do  for  this  uncle  of  America  who  had  been 
so  amiable.  And  others  had  suddenly  become  so  much 
less  amiable  than  their  wont.  Moreover  that  ^akhtiari 
—  he  might  repent  when  he  heard  the  motor  again.  At 
any  rate  one  could  say  that  one  had  waited  for  him.  And 
the  Brazilian  would  no  doubt  show  a  gratitude  so  hand- 
some that  one  could  afford  to  be  a  little  independent.  If 
those  on  the  steamer  asked  any  questions  when  the  mo- 
tor-boat passed,  surely  the  Brazilian,  who  was  more  of  a 
seigneur  than  any  employee  of  an  oil  company,  would 
know  how  to  answer. 

"  Allans!     Why  not?  "  he  said  aloud. 

"  Bravo !  "  cried  the  Brazilian,  withdrawing  his  hand 
from  his  pocket.  "  Take  that  as  part  of  my  ticket.  And 
excuse  me  a  moment  while  I  make  arrangements." 

He  disappeared  through  the  reed  portiere,  leaving  Gas- 
ton to  admire  five  shining  napoleons.  It  gave  him  an  odd 
sensation  to  see,  after  so  long,  those  coins  of  his  country. 
When  Magin  finally  came  back,  it  was  through  the  inner 
door. 

"  Tell  me :  how  much  can  you  carry  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
have  four  boxes  I  would  like  to  take  with  me,  besides  a 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  195 

few  small  things.  These  fools  might  wreck  themselves 
at  Ahwaz  and  lose  everything  in  the  river.  It  would 
annoy  me  very  much  —  after  all  the  trouble  I  have  had  to 
collect  my  objects  of  virtue!  Besides,  the  tub  will  get 
through  more  easily  without  them.     Come  in  and  see." 

"  Mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Gaston,  scratching  his  head, 
when  he  saw.  "  My  boat  won't  get  through  more  easily 
with  them,  especially  at  night."  He  looked  curiously 
around  the  cozy  stateroom. 

"But  it  will  take  them,  eh?  If  necessary,  we  can 
land  them  at  Ahwaz  and  have  them  carried  around  the 
rapids." 

The  thing  took  some  manoeuvering ;  but  the  Lurs,  with 
the  help  of  much  fluent  profanity  from  the  master,  finally 
accomplished  it  without  sinking  the  motor-boat.  Gaston, 
sitting  at  the  wheel  to  guard  his  precious  engine  against 
some  clumsiness  of  the  black-hatted  mountaineers,  looked 
on  with  humorous  astonishment  at  this  turn  of  affairs. 
He  was  destined,  it  appeared,  to  be  disappointed  in  his 
hope  of  cheer.  That  cognac  was  really  very  good  —  if 
only  one  had  had  more  of  it.  Still,  one  at  least  had  com- 
pany now ;  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  be  insensible  to  the 
fine  champagne  of  the  unexpected.  Nor  was  he  uncon- 
scious that  of  many  baroque  scenes  at  which  he  had  as- 
sisted, this  was  not  the  least  baroque. 

When  the  fourth  chest  had  gingerly  been  lowered  into 
place,  Magin  vanished  again.  Presently  he  reappeared, 
followed  by  his  majordomo,  to  whom  he  gave  instructions 
in  a  low  voice.  Then  he  stepped  into  the  stern  of  the 
boat.  The  majordomo,  taking  two  portmanteaux  and  a 
rug  from  the  Lurs  behind  him,  handed  them  down  to 
Gaston.  Having  disposed  of  them,  Gaston  stood  up,  his 
eyes  on  the  Lurs  who  crowded  the  rail. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Magin  gaily,  "for  whom  are 
you  waiting?  We  shall  yet  have  opportunities  to  admire 
the  romantic  scenery  of  the  Karun ! " 

"Ah!  Monsieur  takes  no  —  other  object  of  virtue 
with  him  ?  " 


196  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"  Have  you  so  much  room  ?  "  laughed  Magin.  "  It  is 
a  good  thing  there  is  no  wind  to-night.     Go  ahead." 

Gaston  cast  off,  backed  a  few  feet,  reversed,  and  de- 
scribed a  wide  circle  around  the  stern  of  the  barge.  It 
made  a  strange  picture  in  the  moonlight,  with  its  black- 
curved  beak  and  its  spectral  crew.  They  shifted  to  the 
other  rail  as  the  motor-boat  came  about,  watching  silently. 

"  To  your  oars !  "  shouted  Magin  at  them.  "  Row, 
sons  of  burnt  fathers !  Will  you  have  me  wait  a  month 
for  you  at  Mohamera  ?  " 

They  scattered  to  their  places,  and  Gaston  caught  the 
renewed  flash  of  the  sweeps  as  he  turned  to  steer  for 
the  bend.  It  was  a  good  thing,  he  told  himself,  that  there 
was  no  wind  to-night.  The  gunwale  was  nearer  the 
water  than  he  or  the  boat  cared  for.  She  made  nothing 
like  her  usual  speed.  However,  he  said  nothing. 
Neither  did  Magin  —  until  the  dark  shadow  of  Umm-un- 
Nakhl  divided  the  glitter  in  front  of  them. 

"  Take  the  narrower  channel,"  he  ordered  then.  And 
when  they  were  in  it  he  added :  "  Stop,  will  you,  and 
steer  in  there,  under  the  shadow  of  the  shore?  I  think 
we  would  better  fortify  ourselves  for  the  work  of  the 
night.  I  at  least  did  not  forget  the  cognac,  among  my 
other  objects  of  virtue." 

They  fortified  themselves  accordingly,  .the  Brazilian 
producing  cigars  as  well.  He  certainly  was  an  origmal, 
thought  Gaston,  now  hopeful  of  experiencing  actual  cheer. 
That  originality  proved  itself  anew  when,  after  a  much 
longer  period  of  refreshment  than  would  suit  most  gen- 
tlemen in  a  hurry,  the  familiar  flash  became  visible  in  the 
river  behind  them. 

"  Now  be  quiet,"  commanded  the  extraordinary  uncle 
of  America.  "  Whatever  happens  we  mustn't  let  them 
hear  us.  If  they  take  this  channel,  we  will  slip  down, 
and  run  part  way  up  the  other.  We  shall  give  them  a  lit- 
tle surprise." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  flash,  which  suddenly  went 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  197 

out  behind  the  island.  A  recurrent  splash  succeeded  it, 
and  a  wild  melancholy  singing.  The  singing  and  the 
recurrent  splash  grew  louder,  filled  the  silence  of  the 
river,  grew  softer ;  and  presently  the  receding  oars  flashed 
again,  below  the  island.  But  not  until  the  last  glint  was 
lost  in  the  shimmer  of  the  water,  the  last  sound  had  died 
out  of  the  summer  night,  did  the  Brazilian  begin  to  un- 
fold his  surprise. 

*'  Que  diable  allait-on  faire  dans  cette  galere!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  knew  them  to  do  the 
right  thing!  Let  us  drink  one  more  little  glass  to  the 
good  fortune  of  their  voyage.  And  here,  by  the  way, 
is  another  part  of  my  ticket."  He  handed  Gaston  five 
more  napoleons.  "  But  now,  my  friend,  we  have  some 
work.  I  see  we  shall  never  get  anywhere  with  all  this 
load.  Let  us  therefore  consign  our  objects  of  virtue  to 
the  safe  keeping  of  the  river.  He  will  guard  them  better 
than  anybody.     Is  it  deep  enough  here  ?  " 

It  was  deep  enough.  But  what  an  affair,  getting  those 
heavy  chests  overboard!  The  last  one  nearly  pulled 
Magin  in  with  it.  One  of  the  clamps  caught  in  his 
clothes,  threw  him  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  jerked 
something  after  it  into  the  water.  He  sat  down,  swear- 
ing softly  to  himself,  to  catch  his  breath  and  investigate 
the  damage. 

"  It  was  only  my  revolver,"  he  announced.  "  And  we 
have  no  need  of  that,  since  we  are  not  going  to  the  war ! 
Now,  my  good  Gaston,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  We 
will  not  go  down  the  river,  after  all.     We  will  go  up." 

Gaston,  this  time,  stared  at  him. 

"  Up  ?     But,  Monsieur,  the  barge  — " 

"What  is  my  barge  to  you,  dear  Gaston?  Besides,  it 
is  no  longer  mine.  It  now  belongs  to  the  Sheikh  of 
Mohamera  —  with  whatever  objects  of  virtue  it  still  con- 
tains. He  has  long  teased  me  for  it.  And  none  of  them 
can  read  the  note  they  are  carrying  to  him!  Didn't  I 
tell  you  I  was  going  to  give  them  a  little  surprise  ?     Well, 


198  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

there  it  is.  I  am  not  a  man,  you  see,  to  be  tied  to  objects 
of  virtue.  Which  reminds  me:  where  are  my  port- 
manteaux ?  " 

"  Here,  on  the  tank." 

"  Fi !  And  you  a  chauffeur !  Give  them  to  me.  I  will 
arrange  myself  a  little.  As  for  you,  turn  around  and  see 
how  quickly  you  can  carry  me  to  the  charming  resort  of 
Bund-i-Kir  —  where  Antigonus  fought  Eumenes  and  the 
Silver  Shields  for  the  spoils  of  Susa,  and  won  them. 
Did  you  ever  hear,  Gaston,  of  that  interesting  incident  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  is  too  strong  for  me,"  replied  Gaston,  cryp- 
tically. He  took  off  his  cap,  wiped  his  face,  and  sat  down 
at  the  wheel. 

"  H  a  man  is  not  strong,  what  is  he?  "  rejoined  Magin. 
"  But  you  will  not  find  this  cigar  too  strong,"  he  added 
amicably. 

Gaston  did  not.  What  he  found  strong  was  the  orig- 
inality of  his  passenger  —  and  the  way  that  cognac  failed, 
in  spite  of  its  friendly  warmth,  to  cheer  him.  For  he 
kept  thinking  of  that  absurd  Bakhtiari,  and  of  the  tele- 
graph operator,  and  of  M'sieu  Guy,  and  the  others,  as  he 
sped  northward  on  the  silent  moonlit  river. 

"  This  is  very  well,  eh,  Gaston?  "  uttered  the  Brazilian 
at  last.  "  We  march  better  without  our  objects  of 
virtue."  Gaston  felt  that  he  smiled  as  he  lay  smoking  on 
his  rug  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  "  But  tell  me,"  he 
went  on  presently,  "  how  is  it,  if  I  may  ask,  that  you 
didn't  happen  to  go  in  the  steamer  too,  with  your  Mon- 
sieur Guy?  You  do  not  look  to  me  either  old  or  in- 
capable." 

There  it  was,  the  same  question,  which  really  seemed 
to  need  no  answer  at  first,  but  which  somehow  became 
harder  to  answer  every  time !  Why  was  it  ?  And  how 
could  it  spoil  so  good  a  cognac? 

"  How  is  it?  "  repeated  Gaston.  "  It  is,  Monsieur,  that 
France  is  a  great  lady  who  does  not  derange  herself 
for  a  simple  vagabond  like  Gaston,  or  about  whose  liai- 
sons or  quarrels  it  is  not  for  Gaston  to  concern  himself. 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  199 

This  great  lady  has  naturally  not  asked  my  opinion  about 
this  quarrel.  But  if  she  had,  I  would  have  told  her  that 
it  is  very  stupid  for  everybody  in  Europe  to  begin  shoot- 
ing at  each  other.  Why  ?  Simply  because  it  pleases  ces 
messieurs  the  Austrians  to  treat  ces  messieurs  the  Serbs 
de  haut  en  has!  What  have  I  to  do  with  that?  Be- 
sides, this  great  lady  is  very  far  away,  and  by  the  time 
I  arrive  she  will  have  arranged  her  affair.  In  the  mean- 
time there  are  many  others,  younger  and  more  capable 
than  I,  whose  express  business  it  is  to  arrange  such  af- 
fairs. Will  one  piou-piou  more  or  less  change  the  result 
of  one  battle  ?  Of  course  not !  And  if  I  should  Jose  my 
hand  or  my  head,  who  would  buy  me  another?  Not 
France !  I  have  seen  a  little  what  France  does  in  such 
cases.  My  own  father  left  his  leg  at  Gravelotte,  together 
with  his  job  and  my  mother's  peace.  I  have  seen  what 
happened  to  her,  and  how  it  is  that  I  am  a  vagabond  — 
about  whom  France  has  never  troubled  herself."  He 
shouted  it  over  his  shoulder,  above  the  noise  of  the  mo- 
tor, with  an  increasing  loudness.  "  Also,"  he  went  on, 
"  I  have  duties  not  so  far  away  as  France.  Up  there,  at 
Sheleilieh,  there  will  perhaps  be  next  month  a  little  Gas- 
ton. If  I  go  away,  who  will  feed  him?  I  have  not  the 
courage  of  Monsieur,  who  separates  himself  so  easily 
from  objects  of  virtue.     Voila!" 

Magin  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then : 
"  Courage,  yes !  One  needs  a  little  courage  in  this 
curious  world."  There  was  a  pause,  as  the  boat  cut 
around  a  dark  curve.  "  But  do  not  think,  my  poor  Gas- 
ton, that  it  is  I  who  blame  you.  On  the  contrary,  I  find 
you  very  reasonable  —  more  reasonable  than  many  min- 
isters of  state.  If  others  in  Europe  had  been  able  to 
express  themselves  like  you,  Gaston,  Monsieur  Guy  and 
his  friends  would  not  have  run  away  so  suddenly.  It 
takes  courage,  too,  not  to  run  after  them."  He  made  a 
sound,  as  if  changing  his  position,  and  presently  he  began 
to  sing  softly  to  himself. 

"  Monsieur  would  make  a  fortune  in  the  cafe-chantant," 


200  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

commented  Gaston.  He  began  to  feel,  at  last,  after  the 
favorable  reception  of  his  speech,  a  little  cheered.  He 
felt  cooler,  too,  in  this  quiet  rushing  moonhght  of  the 
river.  "What  is  it  that  Monsieur  sings?  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  heard  that  air." 

"  Very  likely  you  have,  Gaston.  It  is  a  little  song  of 
sentiment,  sung  by  all  the  sentimental  young  ladies  of 
the  world.  He  who  wrote  it,  however,  was  far  from 
sentimental.  He  was  a  fellow  countryman  of  mine  — 
and  of  the  late  Abraham !  —  who  loved  your  country  so 
much  that  he  lived  in  it  and  died  in  it."  And  Magin 
sang  again,  more  loudly,  the  first  words  of  the  song: 

"  Ich  weiss  nicht,  was  soil  es  bedeuten, 
Dass  ich  so  traiirig  bin ; 
Ein   Marchen  aus   alten  Zeiten, 
Das  kommt  mir  nicht  aus  dem  Sinn." 

Gaston  listened  with  admiration,  astonishment,  and  per- 
plexity. It  suddenly  came  back  to  him  how  this  original 
Brazilian  had  sworn  when  the  chest  caught  his  clothes. 

"  But,  Monsieur,  I  thought  —  Are  you,  then,  a  Ger- 


man 


>  " 


Magin,  after  a  second,  laughed. 

"  But  Gaston,  am  I  then  an  enemy  ?  " 

Gaston  examined  him  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  if  your  country  and 
mine  are  at  war — " 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  us,  as  you  just  now  so 
truly  said?  You  have  found  that  your  country's  quar- 
rel was  not  cause  enough  for  you  to  leave  Persia,  and 
so  have  I.  Voila  tout!"  He  examined  Gaston  in  turn. 
"  But  I  thought  you  knew  all  the  time.  Such  is  fame ! 
I  flattered  myself  that  your  Monsieur  Guy  would  leave 
no  one  untold.  Whereas  he  has  left  us  the  pleasure  of  a 
situation  more  piquant,  after  all,  than  I  supposed.  We 
enjoy  the  magnificent  moonlight  of  the  south,  we  admire 
a  historic  river  under  its  most  successful  aspect,  and  we 
do  not  exalt  ourselves  because  our  countrymen,  many 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  20I 

hundreds  of  miles  away,  have  lost  their  heads."  He 
smiled  over  the  piquancy  of  the  situation.  "  Strength  is 
good,"  he  went  on  in  his  impressive  bass,  "  and  courage 
is  better.  But  reason,  as  you  so  justly  say,  is  best  of  all. 
For  which  reason,"  he  added,  "  allow  me  to  recommend  to 
you,  my  dear  Gaston,  that  you  look  a  little  where  you 
are  steering." 

Gaston  looked.  But  he  discovered  that  his  moment  of 
cheer  had  been  all  too  brief.  A  piquant  situation,  in- 
deed! The  piquancy  of  that  situation  somehow  com- 
plicated everything  more  darkly  than  before.  If  there 
were  reasons  why  he  should  not  go  away  with  the  others, 
as  they  had  all  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  would  do,  was 
that  a  reason  why  he,  Gaston,  whose  father  had  lost  a 
leg  at  Gravelotte,  should  do  this  masquerading  German  a 
service?  All  the  German's  amiability  and  originality  did 
not  change  that.  Perhaps,  indeed,  that  explained  the 
originality  and  amiability.  The  German,  at  any  rate,  did 
not  seem  to  trouble  himself  about  it.  When  Gaston 
next  looked  over  his  shoulder,  Magin  was  lying  flat  on 
his  back  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with  his  hands  under 
his  head  and  his  eyes  closed.  And  so  he  continued  to 
lie,  silent  and  apparently  asleep,  while  his  troubled  com- 
panion, hand  on  wheel  and  beret  on  ear,  steered  through 
the  waning  moonlight  of  the  Karun. 

VII 

The  moon  was  but  a  ghost  of  itself,  and  a  faint  rose 
was  beginning  to  tinge  the  pallor  of  the  sky  behind  the 
Bakhtiari  mountains,  when  the  motor  began  to  miss  fire. 
Gaston,  stifling  an  exclamation,  cut  it  off,  unscrewed 
the  cap  of  the  tank,  and  measured  the  gasolene.  Then 
he  stepped  softly  forward  to  the  place  in  the  bow  where 
he  kept  his  reserve  cans.  Magin,  roused  by  the  stopping 
of  the  boat,  sat  up,  stretching. 

"  Tiens!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Here  we  are !  "  He  looked 
about  at  the  high  clay  banks  enclosing  the  tawny  basin 


202  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

of  the  four  rivers.  In  front  of  him  the  konar  trees  of 
Bund-i-Kir  showed  their  dark  green.  At  the  right,  on 
top  of  the  bluff  of  the  eastern  shore,  a  soUtary  peasant 
stood  white  against  the  sky.  Near  him  a  couple  of  oxen 
on  an  inclined  plane  worked  the  rude  mechanism  that 
drew-  up  water  to  the  fields.  The  creak  of  the  pulleys 
and  the  splash  of  the  dripping  goatskins  only  made  more 
intense  the  early  morning  silence.  "  Do  you  remember, 
Gaston  ?  "  asked  Magin.  "  It  was  here  we  first  had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet  —  not  quite  three  weeks  ago." 

"  I  remember,"  answered  Gaston,  keeping  his  eye  on 
the  mouth  of  the  tank  he  was  filling,  "  that  I  was  the  one 
who  wished  you  peace,  Monsieur;  and  that  no  one  asked 
who  you  were  or  where  you  were  going." 

Magin  yawned. 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  have  satisfied  yourself  now  on 
those  important  points.  I  might  add,  however,  for  your 
further  information,  that  I  think  I  shall  not  go  to  Bund-i- 
Kir,  which  looks  too  peaceful  to  disturb  at  this  matinal 
hour,  but  there  —  on  the  western  shore  of  the  Ab-i-Shu- 
teit.  And  that  reminds  me.  I  still  have  to  pay  you  the 
rest  of  my  ticket." 

He  reached  forward  and  laid  a  Httle  pile  of  gold  on 
Gaston's  seat.  Gaston,  watching  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye  as  he  poured  gasolene,  saw  that  there  were  more 
than  five  napoleons  in  that  pile.  There  were  at  least 
ten. 

"  What  would  you  say.  Monsieur,"  he  asked  slowly, 
emptying  his  tin,  "  if  I  were  to  take  you  instead  to  She- 
leilieh  —  where  there  are  still  a  few  of  the  English?" 

"  I  would  say,  my  good  Gaston,  that  you  had  more 
courage  than  I  thought.  By  the  way,"  he  went  on  cas- 
ually, "  what  is  this  ?  " 

He  reached  forward  again  toward  Gaston's  seat,  where 
lay  the  Bakhtiari's  present.  Gaston  dropped  his  tin  and 
made  a  snatch  at  it.  But  Magin  was  too  quick  for 
him.  He  retreated  to  his  place  at  the  stem  of  the  boat, 
where  he  drew  the  knife  out  of  its  sheath. 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  203 

"  Sharp,  too ! "  he  commented,  with  a  smile  at  Gas- 
ton.    "  And  my  revolver  is  gone !  " 

Gaston,  very  pale,  stepped  to  his  seat. 

"  That,  Monsieur,  was  given  me  by  my  Bakhtiari 
brother-in-law  —  to  take  to  the  war.  When  he  found  I 
had  not  the  courage  to  go,  he  ran  away  from  me." 

"  But  you  thought  there  might  be  more  than  one  way 
to  make  war,  eh?  Well,  I  at  least  am  not  an  Apache. 
Perhaps  the  sharks  will  know  what  to  do  with  it."  The 
blade  glittered  in  the  brightening  air  and  splashed  out 
of  sight.  And  Magin,  folding  his  arms,  smiled  again 
at  Gaston.  "  Another  object  of  virtue  for  the  safe  cus- 
tody of  the  Karun! " 

"  But  not  all ! "  cried  Gaston  thickly,  seizing  the  little 
pile  of  gold  beside  him  and  flinging  it  after  the  knife. 

Magin's  smile  broadened. 

"  Have  you  not  forgotten  something,  Gaston  ?  " 

"  But  certainly  not.  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  putting  his 
hand  into  his  pocket.  The  next  moment  a  second  shower 
of  gold  caught  the  light.  And  where  the  little  circles 
of  ripples  widened  in  the  river,  a  sharp  fin  suddenly 
cut  the  muddy  water. 

"  Oho !  Mr.  Shark  loses  no  time !  "  cried  Magin.  He 
stopped  smiling,  and  turned  back  to  Gaston.  "  But  we 
do.  Allow  me  to  say,  my  friend,  that  you  show  your- 
self really  too  romantic.  This  is  no  doubt  an  excellent 
comedy  which  we  are  playing  for  the  benefit  of  that  gen- 
tleman on  the  bluff.  But  even  he  begins  to  get  tired  of 
it.  See?  He  starts  to  say  his  morning  prayer.  So  be 
so  good  as  to  show  a  little  of  the  reason  which  you  know 
how  to  show,  and  start  for  shore.  But  first  you  might 
do  well  to  screw  on  the  cap  of  your  tank  —  if  you  do 
not  mind  a  little  friendly  advice." 

Gaston  looked  around  absent-mindedly,  and  took 
up  the  nickel  cap.  But  he  suddenly  turned  back  to 
Magin. 

"  You  speak  too  much  about  friends,  Alonsieur.  I  am 
not  your  friend.     I  am  your  enemy.     And  I  shall  not  take 


204  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

you  there,  to  the  Ab-i-Shuteit.  I  shall  take  you  into  the 
Ab-i-Gerger  —  to  Sheleilieh  and  the  English." 

Magin  considered  him,  with  a  flicker  in  his  lighted 
eyes. 

"  You  might  perhaps  have  done  it  if  you  had  not  for- 
gotten about  your  gasolene —  And  you  may  yet.  We 
shall  see.  But  it  seems  to  me,  my  —  enemy  !  —  that  you 
make  a  miscalculation.  Let  us  suppose  that  you  take  me 
to  Sheleilieh.  It  is  highly  improbable,  because  you  no 
longer  have  your  knife  to  assist  you.  I,  it  is  true,  no 
longer  have  my  revolver  to  assist  me ;  but  I  have  two 
arms,  longer  and  I  fancy  stronger  than  yours.  How- 
ever, let  us  make  the  supposition.  And  let  us  make  the 
equally  improbable  supposition  that  I  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  English.  What  can  they  do  to  me?  The  worst 
they  can  do  is  to  give  me  free  lodging  and  nourishment 
till  the  end  of  the  war !  Whereas  you,  Gaston  —  you  do 
not  seem  to  have  reflected  that  life  will  not  be  so  simple 
for  you,  after  this.  There  is  a  very  unpleasant  little 
word  by  which  they  name  citizens  who  do  not  respond 
to  their  country's  call  to  arms.  In  other  words,  Mr.  De- 
serter, you  have  taken  the  road  which,  in  war  time,  ends 
between  a  firing-squad  and  a  stone  wall." 

Gaston,  evidently,  had  not  reflected  on  that.  He  stared 
at  his  nickel  cap,  turning  it  around  in  his  fingers. 

"  You  see  ? "  continued  Magin.  "  Well  then,  what 
about  that  little  Gaston?  I  do  not  know  what  has  sud- 
denly made  you  so  much  less  reasonable  than  you  were 
last  night;  but  I,  at  least,  have  not  changed.  And  I  see 
no  reason  why  that  little  Gaston  should  be  left  between 
two  horns  of  a  dilemma.  In  fact  I  see  excellent  reasons 
not  only  why  you  should  take  me  that  short  distance  to 
the  shore,  but  why  you  should  accompany  me  to  Dizful. 
There  I  am  at  home.  I  am,  more  than  any  one  else,  em- 
peror. And  I  need  a  man  like  you.  I  am  going  to 
have  a  car,  I  am  going  to  have  a  boat,  I  am  going  to  have 
a  place  in  the  sun.  There  will  be  many  changes  in  that 
country  after  the  war.     You  will  see.     It  is  not  so  far, 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  205 

either,  from  here.  It  is  evident  that  your  heart,  like 
mine,  is  in  this  part  of  the  world.  So  come  with  me. 
Eh,  Gaston?" 

"  Heart !  "  repeated  Gaston,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  It 
is  you  who  speak  of  the  heart,  and  of  —  But  you  do  not 
speak  of  the  little  surprise  with  which  you  might  some 
day  regale  me,  Mr.  Enemy !  Nor  do  you  say  what  you 
fear  —  that  I  might  take  it  into  my  head  to  go  fishing  at 
Umm-un-Nakhl !  " 

*'  Ah  bah  !  "  exclaimed  Magin  impatiently.  "  How- 
ever, you  are  right.  I  am  not  like  you.  I  do  not  betray 
my  country  for  a  little  savage  with  a  jewel  in  her  nose! 
It  is  because  of  that  small  difference  between  us,  Gaston, 
between  your  people  and  my  people,  that  you  will  see 
such  changes  here  after  the  war.  But  you  will  not  see 
them  unless  you  accept  my  offer.  After  all,  what  else 
can  you  do?  "  He  left  Gaston  to  take  it  in  as  he  twirled 
his  metal  cap.  "  There  is  the  sun  already,"  Magin  added 
presently.     "  We  shall  have  a  hot  journey." 

Gaston  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  quivering  rim 
of  gold  that  surged  up  behind  the  Bakhtiari  mountains. 
How  sharp  and  purple  they  were,  against  what  a  deepen- 
ing blue !  On  the  bluff  the  white-clad  peasant  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  light,  his  hands  folded  in  front  of  him,  his 
head  bowed. 

"  You  look  tired,  Gaston,"  said  Magin  pleasantly. 
"  Will  you  have  this  cigar  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  replied  Gaston.  He  felt  in  his  own 
pockets,  however,  first  for  a  cigarette  and  then  for  a 
match.  He  was  indeed  tired,  so  tired  that  he  no  longer 
remembered  which  pocket  to  fumble  in  or  what  he  held  in 
his  hand  as  he  fumbled.  Ah,  that  sacred  tank!  Then 
he  suddenly  smiled  again,  looking  at  Magin.  "  There  is 
something  else  I  can  do !  " 

"  What?"  asked  Magin  as  he  lay  at  ease  in  the  stern, 
enjoying  the  first  perfume  of  his  cigar.  "  You  can't  go 
back  to  France,  now,  and  I  should  hardly  advise  you  to 
go  back  to  Sheleilieh.     At  least  until  after  the  war.     Then 


2o6  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

there  will  be  no  more  English  there  to  ask  you  trouble- 
some questions !  " 

Gaston  lighted  his  cigarette.  And,  keeping  his  eyes  on 
Magin,  he  slowly  moved  his  hand,  in  which  were  both 
the  nickel  cap  and  the  still-burning  match,  toward  the 
mouth  of  the  tank, 

"  This !  "  he  answered. 

Magin  watched  him.  He  did  not  catch  the  connection 
at  first.  He  saw  it  quickly  enough,  however.  In  his 
pale  translucent  eyes  there  was  something  very  like  a 
flare. 

"  Look  out  —  or  we  shall  go  together  after  all !  " 

"  We  shall  go  together,  after  all,"  repeated  Gaston. 
"  And  here  is  your  place  in  the  sun !  " 

Magin  still  watched,  as  the  little  flame  flickered 
through  the  windless  air.     But  he  did  not  move. 

"  It  will  go  out !  And  you  have  not  the  courage, 
Apache !  " 

"  You  will  see,  Prussian !  "  The  match  stopped,  at  last, 
above  the  open  hole;  but  the  hand  that  held  it  trembled 
a  little,  and  so  did  the  strange  low  voice  that  said: 
"  This  at  least  I  can  do  —  for  that  great  lady,  far  away." 

The  peasant  on  the  bluff,  prostrated  toward  Mecca 
with  his  forehead  in  the  dust,  was  startled  out  of  his 
prayer  by  a  roar  in  the  basin  below  him.  There  where 
the  trim-white  jinn-boat  of  the  Firengi  had  been  was  now 
a  blazing  mass  of  wreckage,  out  of  which  came  fierce 
cracklings,  hissings,  sounds  not  to  be  named.  As  he 
stared  at  it  the  wreckage  fell  apart,  began  to  disappear 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  steam  that  lengthened  toward 
the  southern  gateway  of  the  basin.  And  in  the  turbid 
water,  cut  by  swift  sharks'  fins,  he  saw  a  sudden  bright 
trail  of  red,  redder  than  any  fire  or  sunrise.  It  paled 
gradually,  the  smoke  melted  after  the  steam,  the  current 
caught  the  last  charred  fragments  of  wreckage  and  drew 
them  out  of  sight. 

The  peasant  watched  it  all  silently,  as  if  waiting  for 
some  new  magic  of  the  Firengi,  from  his  high  bank  of  the 


H.  G.  DWIGHT  207 

Karun  —  that  snow-born  river  bound  for  distant  palms, 
that  had  seen  so  many  generations  of  the  faces  of  men, 
so  many  of  the  barks  to  which  men  trust  their  hearts, 
their  hopes,  their  treasures,  as  it  wound,  century  after 
century,  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea.  Then,  at  last, 
the  peasant  folded  his  hands  anew  and  bowed  his  head  to- 
ward Mecca. 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG ' 

By  EDNA  FERBER 

From  The  Metropolitan  Magazine 

THOSE  of  you  who  have  dwelt  —  or  even  Hngered 
—  in  Chicago,  llHnois  (this  is  not  a  humorous 
story),  are  familiar  with  the  region  known  as  the  Loop. 
For  those  others  of  you  to  whom  Chicago  is  a  transfer 
point  between  New  York  and  San  Francisco  there  is 
presented  this  brief  explanation : 

The  Loop  is  a  clamorous,  smoke-infested  district  em- 
braced by  the  iron  arms  of  the  elevated  tracks.  In  a  city 
boasting  fewer  millions,  it  would  be  known  familiarly  as 
downtown.  From  Congress  to  Lake  Street,  from  Wa- 
bash almost  to  the  river,  those  thunderous  tracks  make 
a  complete  circle,  or  loop.  Within  it  lie  the  retail  shops, 
the  commercial  hotels,  the  theaters,  the  restaurants.  It 
is  the  Fifth  Avenue  (diluted)  and  the  Broadway  (de- 
leted) of  Chicago.  And  he  who  frequents  it  by  night  in 
search  of  amusement  and  cheer  is  known,  vulgarly,  as  a 
loop-hound, 

Jo  Hertz  was  a  loop-hound.  On  the  occasion  of  those 
sparse  first  nights  granted  the  metropolis  of  the  Middle 
West  he  was  always  present,  third  row,  aisle,  left. 
When  a  new  loop  cafe  was  opened,  Jo's  table  always 
commanded  an  unobstructed  view  of  anything  worth 
viewing.  On  entering  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  Hello,  Gus," 
with  careless  cordiality  to  the  head-waiter,  the  while  his 
eye  roved  expertly  from  table  to  table  as  he  removed  his 
gloves.     He    ordered    things    under    glass,    so    that    his 

1  Copyright,    1017.    by    The    Metropolitan    Magazine    Company.     Copyright, 
1 9 18,  by  Edna   Ferber. 

208 


EDNA  FERBER  209 

table,  at  midnight  or  thereabouts,  resembled  a  hot-bed 
that  fayors  the  bell  system.  The  waiters  fought  for  him. 
He  was  the  kind  of  man  who  mixes  his  own  salad  dress- 
ing. He  liked  to  call  for  a  bowl,  some  cracked  ice, 
lemon,  garlic,  paprika,  salt,  pepper,  vinegar  and  oil,  and 
make  a  rite  of  it.  People  at  near-by  tables  would  lay 
down  their  knives  and  forks  to  watch,  fascinated.  The 
secret  of  it  seemed  to  lie  in  using  all  the  oil  in  sight  and 
calling  for  more. 

That  was  Jo  —  a  plump  and  lonely  bachelor  of  fifty. 
A  plethoric,  roving-eyed  and  kindly  man,  clutching  vainly 
at  the  garments  of  a  youth  that  had  long  slipped  past 
him.  Jo  Hertz,  in  one  of  those  pinch-waist  belted  suits 
and  a  trench  coat  and  a  little  green  hat,  walking  up 
Michigan  Avenue  of  a  bright  winter's  afternoon,  trying 
to  take  the  curb  with  a  jaunty  youth  fulness  against  which 
every  one  of  his  fat-encased  muscles  rebelled,  was  a  sight 
for  mirth  or  pity,  depending  on  one's  vision. 

The  gay-dog  business  was  a  late  phase  in  the  life  of 
Jo  Hertz.  He  had  been  a  quite  different  sort  of  canine. 
The  staid  and  harassed  brother  of  three  unwed  and  self- 
ish sisters  is  an  under  dog.  The  tale  of  how  Jo  Hertz 
came  to  be  a  loop-hound  should  not  be  compressed  within 
the  limits  of  a  short  story.  It  should  be  told  as  are  the 
photoplays,  with  frequent  throw-backs  and  many  cut-ins. 
To  condense  twenty-three  years  of  a  man's  life  into  some 
five  or  six  thousand  words  requires  a  verbal  economy 
amounting  to  parsimony. 

At  twenty-seven  Jo  had  been  the  dutiful,  hard-work- 
ing son  (in  the  wholesale  harness  business)  of  a  wid- 
owed and  gummidging  mother,  who  called  him  Joey.  H 
you  had  looked  close  you  would  have  seen  that  now  and 
then  a  double  wrinkle  would  appear  between  Jo's  eyes  — 
a  wrinkle  that  had  no  business  there  at  twenty-seven. 
Then  Jo's  mother  died,  leaving  him  handicapped  by  a 
death-bed  promise,  the  three  sisters  and  a  three-story- 
and-basement  house  on  Calumet  Avenue.  Jo's  wrinkle 
became  a  fixture. 


210  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

Death-bed  promises  should  be  broken  as  lightly  as  they 
are  seriously  made.  The  dead  have  no  right  to  lay  their 
clammy  fingers  upon  the  living. 

"  Joey,"  she  had  said,  in  her  high,  thin  voice,  "  take 
care  of  the  girls." 

"  I  will,  ma,"  Jo  had  choked. 

**  Joey,"  and  the  voice  was  weaker,  "  promise  me  you 
won't  marry  till  the  girls  are  all  provided  for."  Then 
as  Jo  had  hesitated,  appalled :  "  Joey,  it's  my  dying 
wish.     Promise !  " 

"  I  promise,  ma,"  he  had  said. 

Whereupon  his  mother  had  died,  comfortably,  leaving 
him  with  a  completely  ruined  life. 

They  were  not  bad-looking  girls,  and  they  had  a  cer- 
tain style,  too.  That  is,  Stell  and  Eva  had.  Carrie,  the 
middle  one,  taught  school  over  on  the  West  Side.  In 
those  days  it  took  her  almost  two  hours  each  way.  She 
said  the  kind  of  costume  she  required  should  have  been 
corrugated  steel.  But  all  three  knew  what  was  being 
worn,  and  they  wore  it  —  or  fairly  faithful  copies  of  it. 
Eva,  the  housekeeping  sister,  had  a  needle  knack.  She 
could  skim  the  State  Street  windows  and  come  away  with 
a  mental  photograph  of  every  separate  tuck,  hem,  yoke, 
and  ribbon.  Heads  of  departments  showed  her  the 
things  they  kept  in  drawers,  and  she  went  home  and  re- 
produced them  with  the  aid  of  a  two-dollar-a-day  seam- 
stress. Stell,  the  youngest,  was  the  beauty.  They  called 
her  Babe.  She  wasn't  really  a  beauty,  but  some  one  had 
once  told  her  that  she  looked  like  Janice  Meredith  (it 
was  when  that  work  of  fiction  was  at  the  height  of  its 
popularity).  For  years  afterward,  whenever  she  went 
to  parties,  she  affected  a  single,  fat  curl  over  her  right 
shoulder,  with  a  rose  stuck  through  it. 

Twenty-three  years  ago  one's  sisters  did  not  strain  at 
the  household  leash,  nor  crave  a  career.  Carrie  taught 
school,  and  hated  it.  Eva  kept  house  expertly  and  com- 
plainingly.     Babe's    profession    was    being    the    family 


EDNA  FERBER  211 

beauty,  and  it  took  all  her  spare  time.  Eva  always  let 
her  sleep  until  ten. 

This  was  Jo's  household,  and  he  was  the  nominal  head 
of  it.  But  it  was  an  empty  title.  The  three  women 
dominated  his  life.  They  weren't  consciously  selfish.  If 
you  had  called  them  cruel  they  would  have  put  you 
down  as  mad.  When  you  are  the  lone  brother  of  three 
sisters,  it  means  that  you  must  constantly  be  calling  for, 
escorting,  or  dropping  one  of  them  somewhere.  Most 
men  of  Jo's  age  were  standing  before  their  mirror  of  a 
Saturday  night,  whistling  blithely  and  abstractedly  while 
they  discarded  a  blue  polka-dot  for  a  maroon  tie,  whipped 
off  the  maroon  for  a  shot-silk,  and  at  the  last  moment 
decided  against  the  shot-silk  in  favor  of  a  plain  black- 
and-white,  because  she  had  once  said  she  preferred  quiet 
ties.  Jo,  when  he  should  have  been  preening  his  feathers 
for  conquest,  was  saying; 

"  Well,  my  God,  I  am  hurrying !  Give  a  man  time, 
can't  you?  I  just  got  home.  You  girls  have  been  lay- 
ing around  the  house  all  day.     No  wonder  you're  ready." 

He  took  a  certain  pride  in  seeing  his  sisters  well 
dressed,  at  a  time  when  he  should  have  been  reveling  in 
fancy  waistcoats  and  brilliant-hued  socks,  according  to 
the  style  of  that  day,  and  the  inalienable  right  of  any 
unwed  male  under  thirty,  in  any  day.  On  those  rare 
occasions  when  his  business  necessitated  an  out-of-town 
trip,  he  would  spend  half  a  day  floundering  about  the 
shops  selecting  handkerchiefs,  or  stockings,  or  feathers, 
or  fans,  or  gloves  for  the  girls.  They  always  turned  out 
to  be  the  wrong  kind,  judging  by  their  reception. 

From  Carrie,  "  What  in  the  world  do  I  want  of  a  fan !  " 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  have  one,"  Jo  would  say. 

"  I  haven't.     I  never  go  to  dances." 

Jo  would  pass  a  futile  hand  over  the  top  of  his  head, 
as  was  his  way  when  disturbed.  "  I  just  thought  you'd 
like  one.  I  thought  every  girl  liked  a  fan.  Just,"  feebly, 
"just  to  — to  have." 


212  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

*'  Oh,  for  pity's  sake !  " 

And  from  Eva  or  Babe,  "  I've  got  silk  stockings,  Jo." 
Or,  "  You  brought  me  handkerchiefs  the  last  time." 

There  was  something  selfish  in  his  giving,  as  there 
always  is  in  any  gift  freely  and  joyfully  made.  They 
never  suspected  the  exquisite  pleasure  it  gave  him  to 
select  these  things;  these  fine,  soft,  silken  things.  There 
were  many  things  about  this  slow-going,  amiable  brother 
of  theirs  that  they  never  suspected.  If  you  had  told 
them  he  was  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  for  example,  they 
would  have  been  amused.  Sometimes,  dead-tired  by 
nine  o'clock,  after  a  hard  day  downtown,  he  would  doze 
over  the  evening  paper.  At  intervals  he  would  wake, 
red-eyed,  to  a  snatch  of  conversation  such  as,  "  Yes,  but 
if  you  get  a  blue  you  can  wear  it  anywhere.  It's  dressy, 
and  at  the  same  time  it's  quiet,  too."  Eva,  the  expert, 
wrestling  with  Carrie  over  the  problem  of  the  new  spring 
dress.  They  never  guessed  that  the  commonplace  man 
in  the  frayed  old  smoking-jacket  had  banished  them  all 
from  the  room  long  ago;  had  banished  himself,  for  that 
matter.  In  his  place  was  a  tall,  debonair,  and  rather 
dangerously  handsome  man  to  whom  six  o'clock  spelled 
evening  clothes.  The  kind  of  a  man  who  can  lean  up 
against  a  mantel,  or  propose  a  toast,  or  give  an  order  to 
a  man-servant,  or  whisper  a  gallant  speech  in  a  lady's 
ear  with  equal  ease.  The  shabby  old  house  on  Calumet 
Avenue  was  transformed  into  a  brocaded  and  chande- 
liered  rendezvous  for  the  brilliance  of  the  city.  Beauty 
was  there,  and  wit.  But  none  so  beautiful  and  witty  as 
She.  Airs. —  er  —  Jo  Hertz.  There  was  wine,  of 
course ;  but  no  vulgar  display.  There  was  music ;  the 
soft  sheen  of  satin ;  laughter.  And  he  the  gracious,  tact- 
ful host,  king  of  his  own  domain  — 

*'  Jo,  for  heaven's  sake,  if  you're  going  to  snore  go  to 
bed ! " 

"  Why  —  did  I  fall  asleep  ?  "  _ 

"  You  haven't  been  doing  anything  else  all  evening. 
A  person  would  think  you  were  fifty  instead  of  thirty," 


EDNA  FERBER  213 

And  Jo  Hertz  was  again  just  the  dull,  gray,  common- 
place brother  of  three  well-meaning  sisters. 

Babe  used  to  say  petulantly,  "  Jo,  why  don't  you  ever 
bring  home  any  of  your  men  friends?  A  girl  might  as 
well  not  have  any  brother,  all  the  good  you  do." 

Jo,  conscience-stricken,  did  his  best  to  make  amends. 
But  a  man  who  has  been  petticoat-ridden  for  years  loses 
the  knack,  somehow,  of  comradeship  with  men.  He 
acquires,  too,  a  knowledge  of  women,  and  a  distaste  for 
them,  equaled  only,  perhaps,  by  that  of  an  elevator- 
starter  in  a  department  store. 

Which  brings  us  to  one  Sunday  in  May.  Jo  came 
home  from  a  late  Sunday  afternoon  walk  to  find  com- 
pany for  supper.  Carrie  often  had  in  one  of  her  school- 
teacher friends,  or  Babe  one  of  her  frivolous  intimates, 
or  even  Eva  a  staid  guest  of  the  old-girl  type.  There 
was  always  a  Sunday  night  supper  of  potato  salad,  and 
cold  meat,  and  coffee,  and  perhaps  a  fresh  cake.  Jo 
rather  enjoyed  it,  being  a  hospitable  soul.  But  he  re- 
garded the  guests  with  the  undazzled  eyes  of  a  man  to 
whom  they  were  just  so  many  petticoats,  timid  of  the 
night  streets  and  requiring  escort  home.  If  you  had 
suggested  to  him  that  some  of  his  sisters'  popularity  was 
due  to  his  own  presence,  or  if  you  had  hinted  that  the 
more  kittenish  of  these  visitors  were  palpably  making 
eyes  at  him,  he  would  have  stared  in  amazement  and 
unbelief. 

This  Sunday  night  it  turned  out  to  be  one  of  Carrie's 
friends. 

"  Emily,"  said  Carrie,  "  this  is  my  brother,  Jo." 

Jo  had  learned  what  to  expect  in  Carrie's  friends. 
Drab-looking  women  in  the  late  thirties,  whose  facial 
lines  all  slanted  downward. 

"  Happy  to  meet  you,"  said  Jo,  and  looked  down  at  a 
different  sort  altogether.  A  most  surprisingly  different 
sort,  for  one  of  Carrie's  friends.  This  Emily  person 
was  very  small,  and  fluffy,  and  blue-eyed,  and  sort  of  — 
well,  crinkly  looking.     You  know.     The  corners  of  her 


214  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

mouth  when  she  smiled,  and  her  eyes  when  she  looked 
up  at  you,  and  her  hair,  which  was  brown,  but  had  the 
miraculous  effect,  somehow,  of  being  golden. 

Jo  shook  hands  with  her.  Her  hand  was  incredibly 
small,  and  soft,  so  that  you  were  afraid  of  crushing  it, 
until  you  discovered  she  had  a  firm  little  grip  all  her  own. 
It  surprised  and  amused  you,  that  grip,  as  does  a  baby's 
unex])ected  clutch  on  your  patronizing  forefinger.  As 
Jo  felt  it  in  his  own  big  clasp,  the  strangest  thing  hap- 
pened to  him.  Something  inside  Jo  Hertz  stopped  work- 
ing for  a  moment,  then  lurched  sickeningly,  then  thumped 
like  mad.  It  was  his  heart.  He  stood  staring  down  at 
her,  and  she  up  at  him,  until  the  others  laughed.  Then 
their  hands  fell  apart,  lingeringly. 

"  Are  you  a  school-teacher,  Emily  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Kindergarten.  It's  my  first  year.  And  don't  call 
me  Emily,  please." 

"Why  not?  It's  your  name.  I  think  it's  the  prettiest 
name  in  the  world."  Which  he  hadn't  meant  to  say  at 
all.  In  fact,  he  was  perfectly  aghast  to  find  himself  say- 
ing it.     But  he  meant  it. 

At  supper  he  passed  her  things,  and  stared,  until 
everybody  laughed  again,  and  Eva  said  acidly,  "  Why 
don't  you  feed  her?" 

It  wasn't  that  Emily  had  an  air  of  helplessness.  She 
just  made  you  feel  you  wanted  her  to  be  helpless,  so 
that  you  could  help  her. 

Jo  took  her  home,  and  from  that  Sunday  night  he 
began  to  strain  at  the  leash.  He  took  his  sisters  out, 
dutifully,  but  he  would  suggest,  with  a  carelessness  that 
deceived  no  one,  "  Don't  you  want  one  of  your  girl 
friends  to  come  along?  That  little  What's-her-name  — 
Emily,  or  something.  So  long's  I've  got  three  of  you,  I 
might  as  well  have  a  full  squad." 

For  a  long  time  he  didn't  know  what  was  the  matter 
with  him.  He  only  knew  he  was  miserable,  and  yet 
happy.  Sometimes  his  heart  seemed  to  ache  with  an 
actual  physical  ache.     He  realized  that  he  wanted  to  do 


EDNA  FERBER  215 

things  for  Emily.  He  wanted  to  buy  things  for  Emily 
—  useless,  pretty,  expensive  things  that  he  couldn't  af- 
ford. He  wanted  to  buy  everything  that  Emily  needed, 
and  everything  that  Emily  desired.  He  wanted  to  marry 
Emily.  That  was  it.  He  discovered  that  one  day,  with 
a  shock,  in  the  midst  of  a  transaction  in  the  harness  busi- 
ness. He  stared  at  the  man  with  whom  he  was  dealing 
until  that  startled  person  grew  uncomfortable. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Hertz  ?  " 

"Matter?" 

"  You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost  or  found  a  gold 
mine.     I  don't  know  which." 

"  Gold  mine,"  said  Jo.     And  then,  "  No.     Ghost." 

For  he  remembered  that  high,  thin  voice,  and  his 
promise.  And  the  harness  business  was  slithering  down- 
hill with  dreadful  rapidity,  as  the  automobile  business 
began  its  amazing  climb.  Jo  tried  to  stop  it.  But  he 
was  not  that  kind  of  business  man.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  to  jump  out  of  the  down-going  vehicle  and  catch 
the  up-going  one.  He  stayed  on,  vainly  applying  brakes 
that  refused  to  work. 

"  You  know,  Emily,  I  couldn't  support  two  households 
now.  Not  the  way  things  are.  But  if  you'll  wait.  If 
you'll  only  wait.  The  girls  might  —  that  is,  Babe  and 
Carrie  — " 

She  was  a  sensible  little  thing,  Emily.  "  Of  course 
I'll  wait.  But  we  mustn't  just  sit  back  and  let  the  years 
go  by.     We've  got  to  help." 

She  went  about  it  as  if  she  were  already  a  little  match- 
making matron.  She  corraled  all  the  men  she  had  ever 
known  and  introduced  .them  to  Babe,  Carrie,  and  Eva 
separately,  in  pairs,  and  en  masse.  She  arranged  parties 
at  which  Babe  could  display  the  curl.  She  got  up  picnics. 
She  stayed  home  while  Jo  took  the  three  about.  When 
she  was  present  she  tried  to  look  as  plain  and  obscure  as 
possible,  so  that  the  sisters  should  show  up  to  advantage. 
She  schemed,  and  planned,  and  contrived,  and  hoped ; 
and  smiled  into  Jo's  despairing  eyes. 


2i6  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

And  three  years  went  by.  Three  precious  years. 
Carrie  still  taught  school,  and  hated  it.  Eva  kept  house, 
more  and  more  complainingly  as  prices  advanced  and  al- 
lowance retreated.  Stell  was  still  Babe,  the  family 
beauty;  but  even  she  knew  that  the  time  was  past  for 
curls.  Emily's  hair,  somehow,  lost  its  glint  and  began 
to  look  just  plain  brown.  Her  crinkliness  began  to  iron 
out. 

"  Now,  look  here !  "  Jo  argued,  desperately,  one  night. 
"  We  could  be  happy,  anyway.  There's  plenty  of  room 
at  the  house.  Lots  of  people  begin  that  way.  Of  course, 
I  couldn't  give  you  all  I'd  like  to  at  first.  But  maybe, 
after  a  while  — " 

No  dreams  of  salons,  and  brocade,  and  velvet-footed 
servitors,  and  satin  damask  now.  Just  two  rooms,  all 
their  own,  all  alone,  and  Emily  to  work  for.  That  was 
his  dream.  But  it  seemed  less  possible  than  that  other 
absurd  one  had  been. 

You  know  that  Emily  was  as  practical  a  little  thing  as 
she  looked  fluffy.  She  knew  women.  Especially  did 
she  know  Eva,  and  Carrie,  and  Babe.  She  tried  to 
imagine  herself  taking  the  household  affairs  and  the 
housekeeping  pocketbook  out  of  Eva's  expert  hands. 
Eva  had  once  displayed  to  her  a  sheaf  of  aigrettes  she 
had  bought  with  what  she  saved  out  of  the  housekeeping 
money.  So  then  she  tried  to  picture  herself  allowing 
the  reins  of  Jo's  house  to  remain  in  Eva's  hands.  And 
everything  feminine  and  normal  in  her  rebelled.  Emily 
knew  she'd  want  to  put  away  her  own  freshly  laundered 
linen,  and  smooth  it,  and  pat  it.  She  was  that  kind  of 
woman.  She  knew  she'd  want  to  do  her  own  delightful 
haggling  with  butcher  and  vegetable  peddler.  She  knew 
she'd  want  to  muss  Jo's  hair,  and  sit  on  his  knee,  and 
even  quarrel  with  him,  if  necessary,  without  the  aware- 
ness of  three  ever-present  pairs  of  maiden  eyes  and  ears. 

"  No !  No !  We'd  only  be  miserable.  I  know. 
Even  if  thev  didn't  object.  And  they  would.  Jo. 
Wouldn't  they  ?  " 


EDNA  FERBER  217 

His  silence  was  miserable  assent.  Then,  "  But  you  do 
love  me,  don't  you,  Emily  ?  " 

"  I  do,  Jo.  I  love  you  —  and  love  you  —  and  .love  you. 
But,  Jo,  I  —  can't." 

"  I  know  it,  dear.  I  knew  it  all  the  time,  really.  1 
just  thought,  maybe,  somehow  — " 

The  two  sat  staring  for  a  moment  into  space,  their 
hands  clasped.  Then  they  both  shut  their  eyes,  with  a 
little  shudder,  as  though  what  they  saw  was  terrible  to 
look  upon.  Emily's  hand,  the  tiny  hand  that  was  so  un- 
expectedly firm,  tightened  its  hold  on  his,  and  his  crushed 
the  absurd  fingers  until  she  winced  with  pain. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  they  knew  it. 

Emily  wasn't  the  kind  of  girl  who  would  be  left  to 
pine.  There  are  too  many  Jo's  in  the  world  whose  hearts 
are  prone  to  lurch  and  then  thump  at  the  feel  of  a  soft, 
fluttering,  incredibly  small  hand  in  their  grip.  One  year 
later  Emily  was  married  to  a  young  man  whose  father 
owned  a  large,  pie-shaped  slice  of  the  prosperous  state  of 
Michigan. 

That  being  safely  accomplished,  there  was  something 
grimly  humorous  in  the  trend  taken  by  affairs  in  the  old 
house  on  Calumet.  For  Eva  married.  Of  all  people, 
Eva!  Married  well,  too,  though  he  was  a  great  deal 
older  than  she.  She  went  off  in  a  hat  she  had  copied 
from  a  French  model  at  Fields's,  and  a  suit  she  had  con- 
trived with  a  home  dressmaker,  aided  by  pressing  on  the 
part  of  the  little  tailor  in  the  basement  over  on  Thirty- 
first  Street.  It  was  the  last  of  that,  though.  The  next 
time  they  saw  her,  she  had  on  a  hat  that  even  she  would 
have  despaired  of  copying,  and  a  suit  that  sort  of  melted 
into  your  gaze.  She  moved  to  the  North  Side  (trust  Eva 
for  that),  and  Babe  assumed  the  management  of  the 
household  on  Calumet  Avenue.  It  was  rather  a  pinched 
little  household  now,  for  the  harness  business  shrank  and 
shrank. 

*'  I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  me  to  keep  house 
decently    on    this ! "    Babe    would    say    contemptuously. 


2i8  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

Babe's  nose,  always  a  little  inclined  to  sharpness,  had 
whittled  down  to  a  point  of  late.  "  If  you  knew  what 
Ben  gives  Eva." 

"  It's  the  best  I  can  do.  Sis.  Business  is  something 
rotten." 

"  Ben  says  if  you  had  the  least  bit  of  — "  Ben  was 
Eva's  husband,  and  quotable,  as  are  all  successful  men. 

"  I  don't  care  what  Ben  says,"  shouted  Jo,  goaded  into 
rage.  "  I'm  sick  of  your  everlasting  Ben.  Go  and  get  a 
Ben  of  your  own,  why  don't  you,  if  you're  so  stuck  on 
the  way  he  does  things." 

And  Babe  did.  She  made  a  last  desperate  drive,  aided 
'by  Eva,  and  she  captured  a  rather  surprised  young  man 
in  the  brokerage  way,  who  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
marry  for  years  and  years.  Eva  wanted  to  give  her  her 
wedding  things,  but  at  that  Jo  broke  into  sudden  rebel- 
lion. 

"  No,  sir!  No  Ben  is  going  to  buy  my  sister's  wedding 
clothes,  understand?  I  guess  I'm  not  broke  —  yet.  I'll 
furnish  the  money  for  her  things,  and  there'll  be  enough 
of  them,  too." 

Babe  had  as  useless  a  trousseau,  and  as  filled  with 
extravagant  pink-and-blue  and  lacy  and  frilly  things  as 
any  daughter  of  doting  parents.  Jo  seemed  to  find  a 
grim  pleasure  in  providing  them.  But  it  left  him  pretty 
well  pinched.  After  Babe's  marriage  (she  insisted  that 
they  call  her  Estelle  now)  Jo  sold  the  house  on  Calumet. 
He  and  Carrie  took  one  of  those  little  flats  that  were 
springing  up,  seemingly  over  night,  all  through  Chicago's 
South  Side. 

There  was  nothing  domestic  about  Carrie.  She  had 
given  up  teaching  two  years  before,  and  had  gone  into 
Social  Service  work  on  the  West  Side.  She  had  what  is 
known  as  a  legal  mind,  hard,  clear,  orderly,  and  she  made 
a  great  success  of  it.  Her  dream  was  to  live  at  the  Set- 
tlement House  and  give  all  her  time  to  the  work.  Upon 
the  little  household  she  bestowed  a  certain  amount  of 
grim,  capable  attention.     It  was  the  same  kind  of  atten- 


EDNA  FERBER  219 

tion  she  would  have  given  a  piece  of  machinery  whose 
oiling  and  running  had  been  entrusted  to  her  care.  She 
hated  it,  and  didn't  hesitate  to  say  so. 

Jo  took  to  prowling  about  department  store  basements, 
and  household  goods  sections.  He  was  always  sending 
home  a  bargain  in  a  ham,  or  a  sack  of  potatoes,  or  fifty 
pounds  of  sugar,  or  a  window  clamp,  or  a  new  kind  of 
paring  knife.  He  was  forever  doing  odd  little  jobs  that 
the  janitor  should  have  done.  It  was  the  domestic  in 
him  claiming  its  own. 

Then,  one  night,  Carrie  came  home  with  a  dull  glow 
in  her  leathery  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  alight  with  resolve. 
They  had  what  she  called  a  plain  talk. 

"  Listen,  Jo.  They've  offered  me  the  job  of  first  as- 
sistant resident  worker.  And  I'm  going  to  take  it. 
Take  it!  I  know  fifty  other  girls  who'd  give  their  ears 
for  it.     I  go  in  next  month." 

They  were  at  dinner.  Jo  looked  up  from  his  plate, 
dully.  Then  he  glanced  around  the  little  dining-room, 
with  its  ugly  tan  walls  and  its  heavy  dark  furniture  (the 
Calumet  Street  pieces  fitted  cumbersomely  into  the  five- 
room  flat). 

"  Away  ?    Away  from  here,  you  mean  —  to  live  ?  " 

Carrie  laid  down  her  fork.  "  Well,  really,  Jo !  After 
all  that  explanation." 

"  But  to  go  over  there  to  live !  Why,  that  neighbor- 
hood's full  of  dirt,  and  disease,  and  crime,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  all.     I  can't  let  you  do  that,  Carrie." 

Carrie's  chin  came  up.  She  laughed  a  short  little 
laugh.  "  Let  me !  That's  eighteenth-century  talk,  Jo. 
My  life's  my  own  to  live.     I'm  going." 

And  she  went.  Jo  stayed  on  in  the  apartment  until 
the  lease  was  up.  Then  he  sold  what  furniture  he  could, 
stored  or  gave  away  the  rest,  and  took  a  room  on  Michi- 
gan Avenue  in  one  of  the  old  stone  mansions  whose  de- 
cayed splendor  was  being  put  to  such  purpose. 

Jo  Hertz  was  his  own  master.  Free  to  marry.  Free 
to  come  and  go.     And  he  found  he  didn't  even  think  of 


220  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

marrying.  He  didn't  even  want  to  come  or  go,  particu- 
larly. A  rather  frumpy  old  bachelor,  with  thinning  hair 
and  a  thickening  neck.  Much  has  been  written  about 
the  unwed,  middlfe-aged  woman ;  her  f  ussiness,  her  prim- 
ness, her  angularity  of  mind  and  body.  In  the  male  that 
same  fussiness  develops,  and  a  certain  primness,  too. 
But  he  grows  flabby  where  she  grows  lean. 

Every  Thursday  evening  he  took  dinner  at  Eva's,  and 
on  Sunday  noon  at  Stell's.  He  tucked  his  napkin  under 
his  chin  and  openly  enjoyed  the  home-made  soup  and 
the  well-cooked  meats.  After  dinner  he  tried  to  talk 
business  with  Eva's  husband,  or  Stell's.  His  business 
talks  were  the  old-fashioned  kind,  beginning: 

"  Well,  now,  looka  here.  Take,  f  rinstance  your  raw 
hides  and  leathers." 

But  Ben  and  George  didn't  want  to  take  f'rinstance 
your  raw  hides  and  leathers.  They  v/anted,  when  they 
took  anything  at  all,  to  take  golf,  or  politics,  or  stocks. 
They  were  the  modern  type  of  business  man  who  prefers 
to  leave  his  work  out  of  his  play.  Business,  with  them, 
was  a  profession  —  a  finely  graded  and  balanced  thing, 
diflfering  from  Jo's  clumsy,  downhill  style  as  completely 
as  does  the  method  of  a  great  criminal  detective  differ 
from  that  of  a  village  constable.  They  would  listen, 
restively,  and  say,  "  Uh-uh,"  at  intervals,  and  at  the 
first  chance  they  would  sort  of  fade  out  of  the  room, 
with  a  meaning  glance  at  their  wives.  Eva  had  two 
children  now.  Girls.  They  treated  Uncle  Jo  with 
good-natured  tolerance.  Stell  had  no  children.  Uncle 
Jo  degenerated,  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees,  from 
the  position  of  honored  guest,  who  is  served  with  white 
meat,  to  that  of  one  who  is  content  with  a  leg  and  one  of 
those  obscure  and  bony  sections  which,  after  much  turn- 
ing with  a  bewildered  and  investigating  knife  and  fork, 
leave  one  baffled  and  unsatisfied. 

Eva  and  Stell  got  together  and  decided  that  Jo  ought 
to  marry. 


EDNA  FERBER  221 

"  It  isn't  natural,"  Eva  told  him.  "  I  never  saw  a 
man  who  took  so  little  interest  in  women." 

"  Me !  "  protested  Jo,  almost  shyly.    "  Women !  " 

**  Yes.  Of  course.  You  act  like  a  frightened  school 
boy." 

So  they  had  in  for  dinner  certain  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances of  fitting  age.  They  spoke  of  them  as  "  splendid 
girls."  Between  thirty-six  and  forty.  They  talked 
awfully  well,  in  a  firm,  clear  way,  about  civics,  and 
classes,  and  politics,  and  economics,  and  boards.  They 
rather  terrified  Jo.  He  didn't  understand  much  that 
they  talked  about,  and  he  felt  humbly  inferior,  and  yet 
a  little  resentful,  as  if  something  had  passed  him  by. 
He  escorted  them  home,  dutifully,  though  they  told  him 
not  to  bother,  and  they  evidently  meant  it.  They  seemed 
capable,  not  only  of  going  home  quite  unattended,  but  of 
delivering  a  pointed  lecture  to  any  highwayman  or 
brawler  who  might  molest  them. 

The  following  Thursday  Eva  would  say,  "  How  did 
you  like  her,  Jo  ?  " 

"  Like  who?  "  Jo  would  spar  feebly. 

"  Miss  Matthews." 

"Who's  she?" 

"  Now,  don't  be  funny,  Jo.  You  know  very  well  I 
mean  the  girl  who  was  here  for  dinner.  The  one  who 
talked  so  well  on  the  emigration  question." 

"  Oh,  her!  Why,  I  liked  her,  all  right.  Seems  to  be 
a  smart  woman." 

"  Smart !     She's  a  perfectly  splendid  girl." 

"  Sure,"  Jo  would  agree  cheerfully. 

"But  didn't  you  like  her?" 

"  I  can't  say  I  did,  Eve.  And  I  can't  say  I  didn't. 
She  made  me  think  a  lot  of  a  teacher  I  had  in  the  fifth 
reader.  Name  of  Himes.  As  I  recall  her,  she  must 
have  been  a  fine  woman.  But  I  never  thought  of  her  as 
a  woman  at  all.     She  was  just  Teacher." 

"  You  make  me  tired,"  snapped  Eva  impatiently.     "  A 


222  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

man  of  your  age.  You  don't  expect  to  marry  a  girl,  do 
you?    A  child!" 

"  I  don't  expect  to  marry  anybody,"  Jo  had  answered. 

And  that  was  the  truth,  lonely  though  he  often 
was. 

The  following  year  Eva  moved  to  Winnetka.  Any 
one  who  got  the  meaning  of  the  Loop  knows  the  signifi- 
cance of  a  move  to  a  north  shore  suburb,  and  a  house. 
Eva's  daughter,  Ethel,  was  growing  up,  and  her  mother 
had  an  eye  on  society. 

That  did  away  with  Jo's  Thursday  dinner.  Then 
Stell's  husband  bought  a  car.  They  went  out  into  the 
country  every  Sunday.  Stell  said  it  was  getting  so  that 
maids  objected  to  Sunday  dinners,  anyway.  Besides, 
they  were  unhealthy,  old-fashioned  things.  They  always 
meant  to  ask  Jo  to  come  along,  but  by  the  time  their 
friends  were  placed,  and  the  lunch,  and  the  boxes,  and 
sweaters,  and  George's  camera,  and  everything,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  room  for  a  man  of  Jo's  bulk.  So  that 
eliminated  the  Sunday  dinners. 

"  Just  drop  in  any  time  during  the  week,"  Stell  said, 
"  for  dinner.  Except  Wednesday  —  that's  our  bridge 
night  —  and  Saturday.  And,  of  course,  Thursday. 
Cook  is  out  that  night.     Don't  wait  for  me  to  'phone." 

And  so  Jo  drifted  into  that  sad-eyed,  dyspeptic  family 
made  up  of  those  you  see  dining  in  second-rate  restau- 
rants, their  paper  propped  up  against  the  bowl  of  oyster 
crackers,  munching  solemnly  and  with  indifference  to 
the  stare  of  the  passer-by  surveying  them  through  the 
brazen  plate-glass  window. 

And  then  came  the  War.  The  war  that  spelled  death 
and  destruction  to  millions.  The  war  that  brought  a 
fortune  to  Jo  Hertz,  and  transformed  him,  over  night, 
from  a  baggy-kneed  old  bachelor  whose  business  was  a 
failure  to  a  prosperous  manufacturer  whose  only  trouble 
was  the  shortage  in  hides  for  the  making  of  his  product 
—  leather !     The  armies  of  Europe  called  for  it,     Har- 


EDNA  FERBER  223 

nesses!  More  harnesses!  Straps!  Millions  of  straps! 
More!     More! 

The  musty  old  harness  business  over  on  Lake  Street 
was  magically  changed  from  a  dust-covered,  dead-alive 
concern  to  an  orderly  hive  that  hummed  and  glittered 
with  success.  Orders  poured  in.  Jo  Hertz  had  inside 
information  on  the  War.  He  knew  about  troops  and 
horses.  He  talked  with  French  and  English  and  Italian 
buyers  —  noblemen,  many  of  them  —  commissioned  by 
their  countries  to  get  American-made  suppHes.  And 
now,  when  he  said  to  Ben  or  George,  "  Take  f'rinstance 
your  raw  hides  and  leathers,"  they  listened  with  respectful 
attention. 

And  then  began  the  gay  dog  business  in  the  life  of  Jo 
Hertz.  He  developed  into  a  loop-hound,  ever  keen  on 
the  scent  of  fresh  pleasure.  That  side  of  Jo  Hertz 
which  had  been  repressed  and  crushed  and  ignored  began 
to  bloom,  unhealthily.  At  first  he  spent  money  on  his 
rather  contemptuous  nieces.  He  sent  them  gorgeous 
fans,  and  watch  bracelets,  and  velvet  bags.  He  took  two 
expensive  rooms  at  a  downtown  hotel,  and  there  was 
something  more  tear-compelling  than  grotesque  about  the 
way  he  gloated  over  the  luxury  of  a  separate  ice-water 
tap  in  the  bathroom.     He  explained  it. 

"  Just  turn  it  on.  Ice-water !  Any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night." 

He  bought  a  car.  Naturally.  A  glittering  affair;  in 
color  a  bright  blue,  with  pale-blue  leather  straps  and  a 
great  deal  of  gold  fittings  and  wire  wheels.  Eva  said  it 
was  the  kind  of  a  thing  a  soubrette  would  use,  rather 
than  an  elderly  business  man.  You  saw  him  driving 
about  in  it,  red-faced  and  rather  awkward  at  the  wheel. 
You  saw  him,  too,  in  the  Pompeiian  room  at  the  Con- 
gress Hotel  of  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  doubtful  and 
roving-eyed  matrons  in  kolinsky  capes  are  wont  to  con- 
gregate to  sip  pale  amber  drinks.  Actors  grew  to  recog- 
nize the  semi-bald  head  and  the  shining,  round,  good-na- 
tured face  looming  out  at  them  from  the  dim  well  of  the 


224  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

parquet,  and  sometimes,  in  a  musical  show,  they  directed 
a  quip  at  him,  and  he  liked  it.  He  could  pick  out  the 
critics  as  they  came  down  the  aisle,  and  even  had  a  nod- 
ding acquaintance  with  two  of  them. 

"  Kelly,  of  the  Herald,"  he  would  say  carelessly. 
"  Bean,  of  the  Trib.    They're  all  afraid  of  him." 

So  he  frolicked,  ponderously.  In  New  York  he  might 
have  been  called  a  Man  About  Town. 

And  he  was  lonesome.  He  was  very  lonesome.  So  he 
searched  about  in  his  mind  and  brought  from  the  dim 
past  the  memory  of  the  luxuriously  furnished  establish- 
ment of  which  he  used  to  dream  in  the  evenings  when  he 
dozed  over  his  paper  in  the  old  house  on  Calumet.  So 
he  rented  an  apartment,  many-roomed  and  expensive, 
with  a  man-servant  in  charge,  and  furnished  it  in  styles 
and  periods  ranging  through  all  the  Louis.  The  living 
room  was  mostly  rose  color.  It  was  like  an  unhealth}- 
and  bloated  boudoir.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  syba- 
ritic or  uncleanly  in  the  sight  of  this  paunchy,  middle- 
aged  man  sinking  into  the  rosy-cushioned  luxury  of  his 
ridiculous  home.  It  was  a  frank  and  naive  indulgence 
of  long-starved  senses,  and  there  was  in  it  a  great  re- 
semblance to  the  rolling-eyed  ecstasy  of  a  school-boy 
smacking  his  lips  over  an  all-day  sucker. 

The  War  went  on,  and  on,  and  on.  And  the  money 
continued  to  roll  in  —  a  flood  of  it.  Then,  one  afternoon, 
Eva,  in  town  on  shopping  bent,  entered  a  small,  exclusive, 
and  expensive  shop  on  Michigan  Avenue.  Exclusive, 
that  is,  in  price.  Eva's  weakness,  you  may  remember, 
was  hats.  She  was  seeking  a  hat  now.  She  described 
what  she  sought  with  a  languid  conciseness,  and  stood 
looking  about  her  after  the  saleswoman  had  vanished  in 
quest  of  it.  The  room  was  becomingly  rose-illumined 
and  somewhat  dim,  so  that  some  minutes  had  passed  be- 
fore she  realized  that  a  man  seated  on  a  raspberry  brocade 
settee  not  five  feet  away  —  a  man  with  a  walking  stick, 
and  yellow  gloves,  and  tan  spats,  and  a  check  suit  —  was 
her  brother  Jo.     From  him  Eva's  wild-eyed  glance  leaped 


EDNA  FERBER  225 

to  the  woman  who  was  trying  on  hats  before  one  of  the 
many  long  mirrors.  She  was  seated,  and  a  saleswoman 
was  exclaiming  discreetly  at  her  elbow. 

Eva  turned  sharply  and  encountered  her  own  sales- 
woman returning,  hat-laden.  "  Not  to-day,"  she  gasped. 
"  I'm  feeling  ill.  Suddenly."  And  almost  ran  from  the 
room. 

That  evening  she  told  Stell,  relating  her  news  in  that 
telephone  pidgin-English  devised  by  every  family  of 
married  sisters  as  protection  against  the  neighbors  and 
Central.     Translated,  it  ran  thus : 

"  He  looked  straight  at  me.  My  dear,  I  thought  I'd 
die !  But  at  least  he  had  sense  enough  not  to  speak.  She 
was  one  of  those  limp,  willowy  creatures  with  the  greedi- 
est eyes  that  she  tried  to  keep  softened  to  a  baby  stare, 
and  couldn't,  she  was  so  crazy  to  get  her  hands  on  those 
hats.  I  saw  it  all  in  one  awful  minute.  You  know  the 
way  I  do.  I  suppose  some  people  would  call  her  pretty. 
I  don't.  And  her  color !  Well !  And  the  most  ex- 
pensive-looking hats.  Aigrettes,  and  paradise,  and  feath- 
ers. Not  one  of  them  under  seventy-five.  Isn't  it  dis- 
gusting !  At  his  age !  Suppose  Ethel  had  been  with 
me!" 

The  next  time  it  was  Stell  who  saw  them.  In  a  res- 
taurant. She  said  it  spoiled  her  evening.  And  the  third 
time  it  was  Ethel.  She  was  one  of  the  guests  at  a  theater 
party  given  by  Nicky  Overton  II.  You  know.  The 
North  Shore  Overtons.  Lake  Forest.  They  came  in 
late,  and  occupied  the  entire  third  row  at  the  opening 
performance  of  "  Believe  Me !  "  And  Ethel  was  Nicky's 
partner.  She  was  glowing  like  a  rose.  When  the  lights 
went  up  after  the  first  act  Ethel  saw  that  her  uncle  Jo 
was  seated  just  ahead  of  her  with  what  she  afterward 
described  as  a  Blonde.  Then  her  uncle  had  turned 
around,  and  seeing  her,  had  been  surprised  into  a  smile 
that  spread  genially  all  over  his  plump  and  rubicund 
face.  Then  he  had  turned  to  face  forward  again, 
quickly. 


226  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

"Who's  the  old  bird?"  Nicky  had  asked.  Ethel  had 
pretended  not  to  hear,  so  he  had  asked  again. 

"  My  uncle,"  Ethel  answered,  and  flushed  all  over  her 
delicate  face,  and  down  to  her  throat.  Nicky  had  looked 
at  the  Blonde,  and  his  eyebrows  had  gone  up  ever  so 
slightly. 

It  spoiled  Ethel's  evening.  More  than  that,  as  she 
told  her  mother  of  it  later,  weeping,  she  declared  it  had 
spoiled  her  life. 

Ethel  talked  it  over  with  her  husband  in  that  intimate, 
kimonoed  hour  that  precedes  bedtime.  She  gesticulated 
heatedly  with  her  hair  brush. 

"  It's  disgusting,  that's  what  it  is.  Perfectly  disgust- 
ing. There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  Imagine !  A 
creature  like  that.     At  his  time  of  life." 

There  exists  a  strange  and  loyal  kinship  among  men. 
"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Ben  said  now,  and  even  grinned  a 
little.  "  I  suppose  a  boy's  got  to  sow  his  wild  oats  some 
time." 

"  Don't  be  any  more  vulgar  than  you  can  help,"  Eva 
retorted.  "  And  I  think  you  know,  as  well  as  I,  what  it 
means  to  have  that  Overton  boy  interested  in  Ethel." 

"  If  he's  interested  in  her,"  Ben  blundered,  "  I  guess 
the  fact  that  Ethel's  uncle  went  to  the  theater  with  some 
one  who  wasn't  Ethel's  aunt  won't  cause  a  shudder  to 
run  up  and  down  his  frail  young  frame,  will  it  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  Eva  had  retorted.  "  If  you're  not  man 
enough  to  stop  it,  I'll  have  to,  that's  all.  I'm  going  up 
there  with  Stell  this  week." 

They  did  not  notify  Jo  of  their  coming.  Eva  tele- 
phoned his  apartment  when  she  knew  he  would  be  out, 
and  asked  his  man  if  he  expected  his  master  home  to 
dinner  that  evening.  The  man  had  said  yes.  Eva  ar- 
ranged to  meet  Stell  in  town.  They  would  drive  to 
Jo's  apartment  together,  and  wait  for  him  there. 

When  she  reached  the  city  Eva  found  turmoil  there. 
The  first  of  the  American  troops  to  be  sent  to  France 


EDNA  FERBER  227 

were  leaving.  Michigan  Boulevard  was  a  billowing, 
surging  mass :  Flags,  pennants,  bands,  crowds.  All  the 
elements  that  make  for  demonstration.  And  over  the 
whole  —  quiet.  No  holiday  crowd,  this.  A  solid,  deter- 
mined mass  of  people  waiting  patient  hours  to  see  the 
khaki-clads  go  by.  Three  years  of  indefatigable  read- 
ing had  brought  them  to  a  clear  knowledge  of  what  these 
boys  were  going  to. 

"  Isn't  it  dreadful !  "  Stell  gasped. 

"  Nicky  Overton's  only  nineteen,  thank  goodness." 

Their  car  was  caught  in  the  jam.  When  they  moved 
at  all  it  was  by  inches.  When  at  last  they  reached  Jo's 
apartment  they  were  flushed,  nervous,  apprehensive. 
But  he  had  not  yet  come  in.     So  they  waited. 

No,  they  were  not  staying  to  dinner  with  their  brother, 
they  told  the  relieved  houseman.  Jo's  home  has  already 
been  described  to  you.  Stell  and  Eva,  sunk  in  rose-col- 
ored cushions,  viewed  it  with  disgust,  and  some  mirth. 
They  rather  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Carrie  ought  to  be  here,"  Eva  said.  They  both 
smiled  at  the  thought  of  the  austere  Carrie  in  the  midst 
of  those  rosy  cushions,  and  hangings,  and  lamps.  Stell 
rose  and  began  to  walk  about,  restlessly.  She  picked  up 
a  vase  and  laid  it  down ;  straightened  a  picture.  Eva  got 
up,  too,  and  wandered  into  the  hall.  She  stood  there  a 
moment,  listening.  Then  she  turned  and  passed  into 
Jo's  bedroom.     And  there  you  knew  Jo  for  what  he  was. 

This  room  was  as  bare  as  the  other  had  been  ornate.  It 
was  Jo,  the  clean-minded  and  simple-hearted,  in  revolt 
against  the  cloying  luxury  with  which  he  had  surrounded 
himself.  The  bedroom,  of  all  rooms  in  any  house,  re- 
flects the  personality  of  its  occupant.  True,  the  actual 
furniture  was  paneled,  cupid-surmounted,  and  ridiculous. 
It  had  been  the  fruit  of  Jo's  first  orgy  of  the  senses.  But 
now  it  stood  out  in  that  stark  little  room  with  an  air  as 
incongruous  and  ashamed  as  that  of  a  pink  tarleton 
danseuse  who  finds  herself  in  a  monk's  cell.  None  of 
those  wall-pictures  with  which  bachelor  bedrooms  are 


228  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

reputed  to  be  hung.  No  satin  slippers.  No  scented 
notes.  Two  plain-backed  military  brushes  on  the  chif- 
fonier (and  he  so  nearly  hairless  !) ,  A  little  orderly  stack 
of  books  on  the  table  near  the  bed.  Eva  fingered  their 
titles  and  gave  a  little  gasp..  One  of  them  was  on  gar- 
dening. "  Well,  of  all  things  !  "  exclaimed  Stell.  A  book 
on  the  War,  by  an  Englishman.  A  detective  story  of  the 
lurid  type  that  lulls  us  to  sleep.  His  shoes  ranged  in  a 
careful  row  in  the  closet,  with  shoe-trees  in  every  one 
of  them.  There  was  something  speaking  about  them. 
They  looked  so  human.  Eva  shut  the  door  on  them, 
quickly.  Some  bottles  on  the  dresser.  A  jar  of  pomade. 
An  ointment  such  as  a  man  uses  who  is  growing  bald 
and  is  panic-stricken  too  late.  An  insurance  calendar  on 
the  wall.  Some  rhubarb-and-soda  mixture  on  the  shelf 
in  the  bathroom,  and  a  little  box  of  pepsin  tablets. 

"  Eats  all  kinds  of  things  at  all  hours  of  the  night," 
Eva  said,  and  wandered  out  into  the  rose-colored  front 
room  again  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  chagrined  at  her 
failure  to  find  what  she  has  sought.  Stell  followed  her, 
furtively. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  he  can  be?"  she  demanded. 
"  It's  — "  she  glanced  at  her  wrist,  "  why,  it's  after  six !  " 

And  then  there  was  a  little  click.  The  two  women  sat 
up,  tense.  The  door  opened.  Jo  came  in.  He  blinked 
a  little.     The  two  women  in  the  rosy  room  stood  up. 

"  Why  —  Eve !  Why,  Babe  !  Well !  Why  didn't  you 
let  me  know  ?  " 

"  We  were  just  about  to  leave.  We  thought  you 
weren't  coming  home." 

Jo  came  in,  slowly.  "  I  was  in  the  jam  on  Michigan, 
watching  the  boys  go  by."  He  sat  down,  heavily.  The 
light  from  the  window  fell  on  him.  And  you  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  red. 

And  you'll  have  to  learn  why.  He  had  found  himself 
one  of  the  thousands  in  the  jam  on  Michigan  Avenue, 
as  he  said.     He  had  a  place  near  the  curb,  where  his  big 


EDNA  FERBER  229 

frame  shut  off  the  view  of  the  unfortunates  behind  him. 
He  waited  with  the  placid  interest  of  one  who  has  sub- 
scribed to  all  the  funds  and  societies  to  which  a  prosper- 
ous, middle-aged  business  man  is  called  upon  to  subscribe 
in  war  time.  Then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  leave,  impa- 
tient at  the  delay,  the  crowd  had  cried,  with  a  queer 
dramatic,  exultant  note  in  its  voice,  "  Here  they  come ! 
Here  come  the  boys !  " 

Just  at  that  moment  two  little,  futile,  frenzied  fists  be- 
gan to  beat  a  mad  tattoo  on  Jo  Hertz's  broad  back.  Jo 
tried  to  turn  in  the  crowd,  all  indignant  resentment. 
"  Say,  looka  here !  " 

The  little  fists  kept  up  their  frantic  beating  and  push- 
ing. And  a  voice  —  a  choked,  high  little  voice  —  cried. 
"  Let  me  by !  I  can't  see !  You  man,  you !  You  big 
fat  man  !  My  boy's  going  by  —  to  war  —  and  I  can't  see ! 
Let  me  by !  " 

Jo  scrooged  around,  still  keeping  his  place.  He  looked 
down.  And  upturned  to  him  in  agonized  appeal  was  the 
face  of  little  Emily.  They  stared  at  each  other  for  what 
seemed  a  long,  long  time.  It  was  really  only  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second.  Then  Jo  put  one  great  arm  firmly 
around  Emily's  waist  and  swung  her  around  in  front  of 
him.  His  great  bulk  protected  her.  Emily  was  clinging 
to  his  hand.  She  was  breathing  rapidly,  as  if  she  had 
been  running.     Her  eyes  were  straining  up  the  street. 

"  Why,  Emily,  how  in  the  world  !  — " 

"  I  ran  away.  Fred  didn't  want  me  to  come.  He  said 
it  would  excite  me  too  much." 

"Fred?" 

"  Aly  husband.  He  made  me  promise  to  say  good-by 
to  Jo  at  home." 

"  Jo  ?  " 

"  Jo's  my  boy.  And  he's  going  to  war.  So  I  ran 
away.     I  had  to  see  him.     I  had  to  see  him  go." 

She  was  dry-eyed.  Her  gaze  was  straining  up  the 
street. 

"  Why,  sure,"  said  Jo.     "  Of  course  you  want  to  see 


230  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

him."  And  then  the  crowd  gave  a  great  roar.  There 
came  over  Jo  a  feeHng  of  weakness.  He  was  trembHng. 
The  boys  went  marching  by. 

"  There  he  is,"  Emily  shrilled,  above  the  din.  "  There 
he  is !  There  he  is  !  There  he  — "  And  waved  a  futile 
little  hand.  It  wasn't  so  much  a  wave  as  a  clutching. 
A  clutching  after  something  beyond  her  reach. 

"  Which  one  ?     Which  one,  Emily  ?  " 

"  The  handsome  one.  The  handsome  one.  There !  " 
Her  voice  quavered  and  died. 

Jo  put  a  steady  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Point  him 
out,"  he  commanded.  "  Show  me."  And  the  next  in- 
stant.    "  Never  mind.     I  see  him." 

Somehow,  miraculously,  he  had  picked  him  from  among 
the  hundreds.  Had  picked  him  as  surely  as  his  own  father 
might  have.  It  was  Emily's  boy.  He  was  marching  by, 
rather  stiffly.  He  was  nineteen,  and  fun-loving,  and  he 
had  a  girl,  and  he  didn't  particularly  want  to  go  to  France 
and  —  to  go  to  France.  But  more  than  he  had  hated 
going,  he  had  hated  not  to  go.  So  he  marched  by,  look- 
ing straight  ahead,  his  jaw  set  so  that  his  chin  stuck  out 
just  a  little.     Emily's  boy. 

Jo  looked  at  him,  and  his  face  flushed  purple.  His 
eyes,  the  hard-boiled  eyes  of  a  loop-hound,  took  on  the 
look  of  a  sad  old  man.  And  suddenly  he  was  no  longer 
Jo,  the  sport;  old  J.  Hertz,  the  gay  dog.  He  was  Jo 
Hertz,  thirty,  in  love  with  life,  in  love  with  Emily,  and 
with  the  stinging  blood  of  young  manhood  coursing 
through  his  veins. 

Another  minute  and  the  boy  had  passed  on  up  the 
broad  street  —  the  fine,  flag-bedecked  street  —  just  one  of 
a  hundred  service-hats  bobbing  in  rhythmic  motion  like 
sandy  waves  lapping  a  shore  and  flowing  on. 

Then  he  disappeared  altogether. 

Emily  was  clinging  to  Jo.  She  was  mumbling  some- 
thing over  and  over.  "  I  can't.  I  can't.  Don't  ask  me 
to.     I  can't  let  him  go.     Like  that.     I  can't. 

Jo  said  a  queer  thing. 


. 'i " 


EDNA  FERBER  231 

"  Why,  Emily !  We  wouldn't  have  him  stay  home, 
would 'we?  We  wouldn't  want  him  to  do  anything  dif- 
ferent, would  we?  Not  our  boy.  I'm  glad  he  volun- 
teered.    I'm  proud  of  him.     So  are  you,  glad." 

Little  by  little  he  quieted  her.  He  took  her  to  the  car 
that  was  waiting,  a  worried  chauffeur  in  charge.  They 
said  good-by,  awkwardly.  Emily's  face  was  a  red,  swollen 
mass. 

So  it  was  that  when  Jo  entered  his  own  hallway  half 
an  hour  later  he  blinked,  dazedly,  and  when  the  light 
from  the  window  fell  on  him  you  saw  that  his  eyes  were 
red. 

Eva  was  not  one  to  beat  about  the  bush.  She  sat  for- 
ward in  her  chair,  clutching  her  bag  rather  nervously. 

"  Now,  look  here,  Jo.  Stell  and  I  are  here  for  a  rea- 
son.    We're  here  to  tell  you  that  this  thing's  got  to  stop." 

"Thing?     Stop?" 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  You  saw  me  at 
the  milliner's  that  day.  And  night  before  last,  Ethel. 
We're  all  di.sgusted.  If  you  must  go  about  with  people 
like  that,  please  have  some  sense  of  decency." 

Something  gathering  in  Jo's  face  should  have  warned 
her.  But  he  was  slunpped  down  in  his  chair  in  such  a 
huddle,  and  he  looked  so  old  and  fat  that  she  did  not  heed 
it.  She  went  on.  "  You've  got  us  to  consider.  Your 
sisters.     And  your  nieces.     Not  to  speak  of  your  own  — " 

But  he  got  to  his  feet  then,  shaking,  and  at  what  she 
saw  in  his  face  even  Eva  faltered  and  stopped.  It  wasn't 
at  all  the  face  of  a  fat,  middle-aged  sport.  It  was  a  face 
Jovian,  terrible. 

"  You  1  "  he  began,  low-voiced,  ominous.  "  You !  " 
He  raised  a  great  fist  high.  "'You  two  murderers! 
You  didn't  consider  me,  twenty  years  ago.  You  come  to 
me  with  talk  like  that.  Where's  my  boy!  You  killed 
him,  you  two,  twenty  years  ago.  And  now  he  belongs  to 
somebody  else.  Where's  my  son  that  should  have  gone 
marching  by  to-day?  "  He  flung  his  arms  out  in  a  great 
gesture  of  longing.     The  red  veins  stood  out  on  his  fore- 


232  THE  GAY  OLD  DOG 

head.  "Where's  my  son!  Answer  me  that,  you  >  two 
selfish,  miserable  women.  Where's  my  son !  "  Then,  as 
they  huddled  together,  frightened,  wild-eyed.  "  Out  of 
my  house  !     Out  of  my  house  I     Before  I  hurt  you  !  " 

They  fled,  terriiied.     The  door  banged  behind  them. 

Jo  stood,  shaking,  in  the  center  of  the  room.  Then  he 
reached  for  a  chair,  gropingly,  and  sat  down.  He  passed 
one  moist,  flabby  hand  over  his  forehead  and  it  came 
away  wet.  The  telephone  rang.  He  sat  still.  It 
sounded  far  away  and  unimportant,  like  something  for- 
gotten. I  think  he  did  not  even  hear  it  with  his  conscious 
ear.  But  it  rang  and  rang  hisistently.  Jo  liked  to  an- 
swer his  telephone  when  at  home. 

"  Hello !  "  He  knew  instantly  the  voice  at  the  other 
end. 

"  That  you,  Jo  ?  "  it  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  How's  my  boy  ?  '" 

"  I'm  —  all  right." 

"  Listen,  Jo.  The  crowd's  coming  over  to-night.  I've 
fixed  up  a  little  poker  game  for  you      Just  eight  of  us." 

"  I  can't  come  to-night,  Gert." 

"Can't!     Why  not?" 

"  I'm  not  feeling  so  good." 

"  You  just  said  you  were  all  right." 

"  I  am  all  right.     Just  kind  of  tired." 

The  voice  took  on  a  cooing  note.  "  Is  my  Joey  tired? 
Then  he  shall  be  all  comfy  on  the  sofa,  and  he  doesn't 
need  to  play  if  he  don't  want  to.     No,  sir." 

Jo  stood  staring  at  the  black  mouth-piece  of  the  tele- 
phone. He  was  seeing  a  procession  go  marching  by. 
Boys,  hundreds  of  boys,  in  khaki. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  the  voice  took  on  an  anxious  note. 
"  Are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  wearily. 

"  Jo,  there's  something  the  matter.  You're  sick.  I'm 
coming  right  over." 

"  No  I " 


EDNA  FERBER  233 

"Why  not?  You  sound  as  if  you'd  been  sleeping. 
Look  here — " 

"  Leave  me  alone !  "  cried  Jo,  suddenly,  and  the  re- 
ceiver clacked  onto  the  hook.  "  Leave  me  alone.  Leave 
me  alone."     Long  after  the  connection  had  been  broken. 

He  stood  staring  at  the  instrument  with  unseeing  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  into  the  front  room.  All  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  it.  Dusk  had  come  on.  All  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  everything.  The  zest  had  gone  out 
of  life.  ,  The  game  was  over  —  the  game  he  had  been 
playing  against  loneliness  and  disappointment.  And  he 
was  just  a  tired  old  man.  A  lonely,  tired  old  man  in  a 
ridiculous,  rose-colored  room  that  had  grown,  all  of  a 
sudden,  drab. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE^ 

By  KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD 

From  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

I 

HAVELOCK  the  Dane  settled  himself  back  in  his 
chair  and  set  his  feet  firmly  on  the  oaken  table. 
Chantry  let  him  do  it,  though  some  imperceptible  inch  of 
his  body  winced.  For  the  oak  of  it  was  neither  fumed 
nor  golden ;  it  was  English  to  its  ancient  core,  and  the 
table  had  served  in  the  refectory  of  monks  before  Henry 
Vin  decided  that  monks  shocked  him.  Naturally  Chan- 
try did  not  want  his  friends'  boots  havocking  upon  it. 
But  more  important  than  to  possess  the  table  was  to  pos- 
sess it  nonchalantly.  He  let  the  big  man  dig  his  heel  in. 
Any  man  but  Havelock  the  Dane  would  have  known 
better.  But  Havelock  did  as  he  pleased,  and  you  either 
gave  him  up  or  bore  it.  Chantry  did  not  want  to  give 
him  up. 

Chantry  was  a  ferninist ;  a  bit  of  an  aesthete  but  canny 
at  affairs;  good-looking,  and  temperate,  and  less  hipped 
on  the  matter  of  sex  than  feminist  gentlemen  are  wont 
to  be.  That  is  to  say,  while  he  vaguely  wanted  Ihomme 
moycn  scnsncl  to  mend  his  ways,  he  did  not  expect  him 
to  change  fundamentally.  He  rather  thought  the  women 
would  manage  all  that  when  they  got  the  vote.  You  see, 
he  was  not  a  socialist :  only  a  feminist. 

Havelock  the  Dane,  on  the  other  hand,  was  by  no  means 
a  feminist,  but  was  a  socialist.  What  proljably  brought 
the  two  men  together  —  apart  from  their  common  lik- 

X  Copyright,    1917,   by  The  Atlantic   Monthly  Company.     Copyright,    1918, 
ty   Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould. 

234 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD     235 

ableness  —  was  that  each,  in  his  way,  refused  to  "  go  the 
whole  hog."  They  sometimes  threshed  the  thing  out  to- 
gether, unable  to  decide  on  a  programme,  but  always 
united  at  last  in  their  agreement  that  things  were  wrong. 
Havelock  trusted  Labor,  and  Chantry  trusted  Woman; 
the  point  was  that  neither  trusted  men  like  themselves, 
with  a  little  money  and  an  inherited  code  of  honor. 
Havelock  wanted  his  money  taken  away  from  him; 
Chantry  desired  his  code  to  be  trampled  on  by  innumer- 
able feminine  feet.  But  each  was  rather  helpless,  for 
both  expected  these  things  to  be  done  for  them. 

Except  for  this  tie  of  ineffectuality,  they  had  nothing 
special  in  common.  Havelock's  life  had  been  adventur- 
ous in  the  good  old-fashioned  sense:  the  bars  down  and 
a  deal  of  wandering.  Chantry  had  sown  so  many  crops 
of  intellectual  wild  oats  that  even  the  people  who  came 
for  subscriptions  might  be  forgiven  for  thinking  him  a 
mental  libertine,  good  for  subscriptions  and  not  much 
else.  Between  them,  they  boxed  the  compass  about  once 
a  week.  Havelock  had  more  of  what  is  known  as  "  per- 
sonality "  than  Chantry ;  Chantry  more  of  what  is  known 
as  "  culture."     They  dovetailed,  on  the  whole,  not  badly. 

Havelock,  this  afternoon,  was  full  of  a  story.  Chantry 
wanted  to  listen,  though  he  knew  that  he  could  have  lis- 
tened better  if  Havelock's  heel  had  not  been  quite  so 
ponderous  on  the  saecular  oak.  He  took  refuge  in  a  cos- 
mic point  of  view.  That  was  the  only  point  of  view 
from  which  Havelock  (it  was,  by  the  way,  his  physical 
type  only  that  had  caused  him  to  be  nicknamed  the  Dane : 
his  ancestors  had  come  over  from  England  in  great  dis- 
comfort two  centuries  since),  in  his  blonde  hugeness,  be- 
came negligible.  You  had  to  climb  very  high  to  see  him 
small. 

"You  never  did  the  man  justice,"  Havelock  was  saying. 

"  Justice  be  hanged  !  "  replied  Chantry. 

"Quite  so:  the  feminist  slogan." 

"  A  socialist  can't  afford  to  throw  stones." 

The  retorts  were  spoken  sharply,  on  both  sides.     Then 


236  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

both  men  laughed.  They  had  too  often  had  it  out  se- 
riously to  mind;  these  little  insults  were  mere  conven- 
tion. 

"  Get  at  your  story,"  resumed  Chantry.  "  I  suppose 
there's  a  woman  in  it :  a  nasty  cat  invented  by  your  own 
prejudices.     There  usually  is." 

"  Never  a  woman  at  all.  If  there  were,  I  shouldn't  be 
asking  for  your  opinion.  My  opinion,  of  course,  is 
merely  the  rational  one.  I  don't  side-step  the  truth  be- 
cause a  little  drama  gets  in.  I  am  appealing  to  you  be- 
cause you  are  the  average  man  who  hasn't  seen  the  light. 
I  honestly  want  to  know  what  you  think.  There's  a 
reason." 

"  What's  the  reason  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  that  later.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  the  story." 
Havelock  screwed  his  tawny  eyebrows  together  for  a 
moment  before  plunging  in.  "Humph!"  he  ejaculated 
at  last.  "  Much  good  anybody  is  in  a  case  like  this  — 
What  did  you  say  you  thought  of  Ferguson  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  anything  of  Ferguson  —  except  that  he 
had  a  big  brain  for  biology.     He  was  a  loss." 

"  No  personal  opinion  ?  " 

"  I  never  like  people  who  think  so  well  of  themselves 
as  all  that." 

"  No  opinion  about  his  death  ?  " 

"  Accidental,  as  they  said,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  '  they  said  ' !     It  was  suicide,  I  tell  you." 

"  Suicide  ?  Really  ?  "  Chantry's  brown  eyes  lighted 
for  an  instant.     "  Oh,  poor  chap  ;  I'm  sorry." 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  immediately  to  ask  how  Have- 
lock knew.     He  trusted  a  plain  statement  from  Havelock. 

"  I'm  not.  Or  —  yes,  I  am.  I  hate  to  have  a  man  in- 
consistent." 

"  It's  inconsistent  for  any  one  to  kill  himself.  But 
it's  frequently  done." 

Havelock,  hemming  and  hawing  like  this,  was  more 
nearly  a  bore  than  Chantry  had  ever  known  him. 

"  Not  for  Ferguson." 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD   237 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind  Ferguson,"  Chantry  yawned. 
"  Tell  me  some  anecdote  out  of  your  tapestried  past." 

"  I  won't." 

Havelock  dug  his  heel  in  harder.  Chantry  all  but 
told  him  to  take  his  feet  down,  but  stopped  himself  just 
in  time. 

"  Well,  go  on,  then,"  he  said,  "  but  it  doesn't  sound  in- 
teresting. I  hate  all  tales  of  suicide.  And  there  isn't 
even  a  woman  in  it,"  he  sighed  maliciously. 

"  Oh,  if  it  comes  to  that,  there  is." 

"  But  you  said  — " 

"  Not  in  it  exactly,  unless  you  go  in  for  post  hoc, 
propter  hoc."     • 

"  Oh,  drive  on."     Chantry  was  pettish. 

But  at  that  point  Havelock  the  Dane  removed  his  feet 
from  the  refectory  table.  He  will  probably  never  know 
why  Chantry,  just  then,  began  to  be  amiable. 

'*  Excuse  me,  Havelock.  Of  course,  whatever  drove  a 
man  like  Ferguson  to  suicide  is  interesting.  And  I  may 
say  he  managed  it  awfully  well.     Not  a  hint,  anywhere." 

"  Well,  a  scientist  ought  to  get  something  out  of  it  for 
himself.  Ferguson  certainly  knew  how.  Can't  you  im- 
agine him  sitting  up  there,  cocking  his  hair  "  (an  odd 
phrase,  but  Chantry  understood),  "  and  deciding  just  how 
to  circumvent  the  coroner?     I  can." 

"  Ferguson  hadn't  much  imagination." 

"  A  coroner  doesn't  take  imagination.  He  takes  a 
little  hard,  expert  knowledge." 

"  I  dare  say."  But  Chantry's  mind  was  wandering 
through  other  defiles.  "  Odd,  that  he  should  have 
snatched  his  life  out  of  the  very  jaws  of  what-do-you- 
call-it,  once,  only  to  give  it  up  at  last,  politely,  of  his  own 
volition." 

"  You  may  well  say  it."  Havelock  spoke  with  more 
earnestness  than  he  had  done.  "If  you're  not  a  socialist 
when  I  get  through  with  you,  Chantry,  my  boy  — " 

"  Lord,  Lord !  don't  tell  me  your  beastly  socialism  is 
mixed  up  with  it  all !     I  never  took  to  Ferguson,  but  he 


238  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

was  no  syndicalist.     In  life  or  in  death,  I'd  swear  to  that." 

"Ah,  no.  If  he  had  been!  But  all  I  mean  is  that,  in 
a  properly  regulated  state,  Ferguson's  tragedy  would  not 
have  occurred." 

"  So  it  was  a  tragedy?  " 

"  He  was  a  loss  to  the  state,  God  knows." 

Had  they  been  speaking  of  anything  less  dignified  than 
death  and  genius,  Havelock  might  have  sounded  a  little 
austere  and  silly.  As  it  was  —  Chantry  bit  back,  and 
swallowed,  his  censure. 

"  That's  why  I  want  to  know  what  you  think,"  went  on 
Havelock,  irrelevantly.  "  Whether  your  damned  code  of 
honor  is  worth  Ferguson." 

"  It's  not  my  damned  code  any  more  than  yours," 
broke  in  Chantry. 

"  Yes,  it  is.  Or,  at  least,  we  break  it  down  at  different 
points  —  theoretically.  Actually,  we  walk  all  round  it 
every  day  to  be  sure  it's  intact.     Let's  be  honest." 

"  Honest  as  you  like,  if  you'll  only  come  to  the  point. 
Whew,  but  it's  hot !     Let's  have  a  gin-fizz." 

"  You  aren't  serious."  ^ 

Havelock  seemed  to  try  to  lash  himself  into  a  rage. 
But  he  was  so  big  that  he  could  never  have  got  all  of 
himself  into  a  rage  at  once.  You  felt  that  only  part  of 
him  was  angry  —  his  toes,  perhaps,  or  his  complexion. 

Chantry  rang  for  ice  and  lemon,  and  took  gin,  sugar, 
and  a  siphon  out  of  a  carved  cabinet. 

"  Go  slow,"  he  said.  He  himself  was  going  very  slow, 
with  a  beautiful  crystal  decanter  which  he  set  lovingly 
on  the  oaken  table.  "  Go  slow,"  he  repeated,  more  eas- 
ily, when  he  had  set  it  down.  "  I  can  think  just  as  well 
with  a  gin-fizz  as  without  one.  And  I  didn't  know  Fer- 
guson well ;  and  I  didn't  like  him  at  all.  I  read  his  books, 
and  I  admired  him.  But  he  looked  like  the  devil  —  the 
devil,  you'll  notice,  not  a  devil.  With  a  dash  of  Charles 
I  by  Van  Dyck.  The  one  standing  by  a  horse.  As  you 
say,  he  cocked  his  hair.  It  went  into  little  horns,  above 
each  eyebrow.     I'm  sorry  he's  lost  to  the  world,  but  it 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD      239 

doesn't  get  me.  He  may  have  been  a  saint,  for  all  I 
know;  but  there  you  are—  I  never  cared  particularly  to 
know.  I  am  serious.  Only,  somehow,  it  doesn't  touch 
me. 

And  he  proceeded  to  make  use  of  crushed  ice  and 
lemon  juice. 

"  Oh,  blow  all  that,"  said  Havelock  the  Dane  finally, 
over  the  top  of  his  glass.     "  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  any- 
how.    Only  I  wish  you  would  forget  your  prejudices.     I 
want  an  opinion." 
uo  on. 

Chantry  made  himself  comfortable. 

II 

"  You  remember  the  time  when  Ferguson  didn't  go 
down  on  the  Argentina?  " 

"  I  do.  Ferguson  just  wouldn't  go  down,  you  know. 
He'd  turn  up  smiling,  without  even  a  chill,  ami  mean- 
while lots  of  good  fellows  would  be  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea." 

"  Prejudice  again,"  barked  Havelock.  "  Yet  in  point 
of  fact,  it's  perfectly  true.  And  you  would  have  pre- 
ferred him  to  drown." 

"  I  was  very  glad  he  was  saved."  Chantry  said  it  in  a 
stilted  manner. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  his  life  was  really  important  to  the  world." 

Chantry  might  have  been  distributing  tracts.  His  very 
voice  sounded  falsetto. 

"  Exactly.     Well,  that  is  what  Ferguson  thought." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  He  told  me." 

"  You  must  have  known  him  well.  Thank  heaven,  I 
never  did." 

Havelock  flung  out  a  huge  hand.  "  Oh,  get  off  that 
ridiculous  animal  you're  riding,  Chantry,  and  come  to  the 
point.  You  mean  you  don't  think  Ferguson  should  have 
admitted  it?" 


240  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

Chantry's  tone  changed.     "  Well,  one  doesn't." 

The  huge  hand,  clenched  into  a  fist,  came  down  on  the 
table.  The  crystal  bottle  was  too  heavy  to  rock,  but  the 
glasses  jingled  and  a  spoon  slid  over  the  edge  of  its 
saucer. 

"  There  it  is  —  what  I  was  looking  for." 

"  What  were  you  looking  for  ?  "  Chantry's  wonder  was 
not  feigned. 

"  For  your  hydra-headed  prejudice.  Makes  me  want 
to  play  Hercules." 

"  Oh,  drop  your  metaphors,  Havelock.  Get  into  the 
game.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  this :  that  you  don't  think  —  or  affect  not  to  think 
—  that  it's  decent  for  a  man  to  recognize  his  own  worth." 

Chantry  did  not  retort.  He  dropped  his  chin  on  his 
chest  and  thought  for  a  moment.  Then  he  spoke,  very 
quietly  and  apologetically. 

"  Well  —  I  don't  see  you  telling  another  man  how 
wonderful  you  are.  It  isn't  immoral,  it  simply  isn't  man- 
ners. And  if  Ferguson  boasted  to  you  that  he  was  saved 
when  so  many  went  down,  it  was  worse  than  bad  man- 
ners. He  ought  to  have  been  kicked  for  it.  It's  the  kind 
of  phenomenal  luck  that  it  would  have  been  decent  to  re- 
gret." 

Havelock  set  his  massive  lips  firmly  together.  You 
could  not  say  that  he  pursed  that  Cyclopean  mouth. 

"  Ferguson  did  not  boast.  He  merely  told  me.  He 
was,  I  think,  a  modest  man." 

Incredulity  beyond  any  power  of  laughter  to  express 
settled  on  Chantry's  countenance.  "  Modest?  And  he 
told  you?" 

"  The  wholev  thing."  Havelock's  voice  was  heavy 
enough  for  tragedy.  "  Listen.  Don't  interrupt  me  once. 
Ferguson  told  me  that,  when  the  explosion  came,  he 
looked  round  —  considered,  for  fully  a  minute,  his  duty. 
He  never  lost  control  of  himself  once,  he  said,  and  I  be- 
lieve him.  The  Argentina  was  a  small  boat,  making  a 
winter  passage.     There  were  very  few  cabin  passengers. 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD   241 

No  second  cabin,  but  plenty  of  steerage.  She  sailed,  you 
remember,  from  Naples.  He  had  been  doing  some  work, 
some  very  important  work,  in  the  Aquarium.  The  only 
other  person  of  consequence  —  I  am  speaking  in  the  most 
literal  and  un-snobbish  sense  —  in  the  first  cabin,  was 
Benson.  No  "  (with  a  lifted  hand),  "  don't  interrupt  me. 
Benson,  as  we  all  know,  was  an  international  figure.  But 
Benson  was  getting  old.  His  son  could  be  trusted  to 
carry  on  the  House  of  Benson.  In  fact,  every  one  sus- 
pected that  the  son  had  become  more  important  than  the 
old  man.  He  had  put  through  the  last  big  loan  while 
his  father  was  taking  a  rest-cure  in  Italy.  That  is  how 
Benson  pere  happened  to  be  on  the  Argentina.  The 
newspapers  never  sufficiently  accounted  for  that.  A  pri- 
vate deck  on  the  Schrecklichkeit  would  have  been  more 
his  size.  Ferguson  made  it  out:  the  old  man  got  wild, 
suddenly,  at  the  notion  of  their  putting  anything  through 
without  him.  He  trusted  his  gouty  bones  to  the  Argen- 
tina." 

"  Sounds  plausible,  but  — "  Chantry  broke  in. 

"  If  you  interrupt  again,"  said  Havelock,  "  I'll  hit  you, 
with  all  the  strength  I've  got." 

Chantry  grunted.  You  had  to  take  Havelock  the  Dane 
as  you  found  him. 

"  Ferguson  saw  the  whole  thing  clear.  Old  Benson 
had  just  gone  into  the  smoking-room.  Ferguson  was  on 
the  deck  outside  his  own  stateroom.  The  only  person 
on  board  who  could  possibly  be  considered  as  important 
as  Ferguson  was  Benson ;  and  he  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  every  one  would  get  on  well  enough  without 
Benson.  He  had  just  time,  then,  to  put  on  a  life-pre- 
server, melt  into  his  stateroom,  and  get  a  little  pile  of 
notes,  very  important  ones,  and  drop  into  a  boat.  No, 
don't  interrupt.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say. 
'Women  and  children.'  What  do  you  suppose  a  lot  of 
Neapolitan  peasants  meant  to  Ferguson  —  or  to  you  and 
me,  either?  He  didn't  do  anything  outrageous;  he  just 
dropped  into  a  boat.     As  a  result,  we  had  the  big  book  a 


242  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

year  later.  No "  (again  crushing  down  a  gesture  of 
Chantry's),  "don't  say  anything  about  the  instincts  of  a 
gentleman.  If  Ferguson  hadn't  been  perfectly  cool,  his 
instincts  would  have  governed  him.  He  would  have 
dashed  about  trying  to  save  people,  and  then  met  the 
waves  with  a  noble  gesture.  He  had  time  to  be  reason- 
able; not  instinctive.  The  world  was  the  gainer,  as  he 
jolly  well  knew  it  would  be  —  or  where  would  have  been 
the  reasonableness?  I  don't  believe  Ferguson  cared  a 
hang  about  keeping  his  individual  machine  going  for  its 
own  sake.  But  he  knew  he  was  a  valuable  person.  His 
mind  was  a  Kohinoor  among  minds.  It  stands  to  reason 
that  you  save  the  Kohinoor  and  let  the  little  stones  go. 
Well,  that's  not  the  story.  Only  I  wanted  to  get  that 
out  of  the  way  first,  or  the  story  wouldn't  have  meant 
anything.  Did  you  wisdi,"  he  finished  graciously,  "  to 
ask  a  question  ?  " 

Chantry  made  a  violent  gesture  of  denial.  "  Ask  a 
question  about  a  hog  like  that  ?     God  forbid  !  " 

"  Um-m-m."  Havelock  seemed  to  muse  within  him- 
self. "  You  will  admit  that  if  a  jury  of  impartial  men  of 
sense  could  have  sat,  just  then,  on  that  slanting  deck, 
they  would  have  agreed  that  Ferguson's  life  was  worth 
more  to  the  world  than  all  the  rest  of  the  boiling  put 
together  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  — " 

"  Well,  there  wasn't  any  jury.  Ferguson  had  to  be  it. 
I  am  perfectly  sure  that  if  there  had  been  a  super-Fer- 
guson on  board,  our  Ferguson  would  have  turned  his 
hand  to  saving  him  first.  In  fact,  I  honestly  believe  he 
was  sorry  there  hadn't  been  a  super-Ferguson.  For  he 
had  all  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman ;  and  it's  never  a 
pleasant  job  making  your  reason  inhibit  your  instincts. 
You  can't  look  at  this  thing  perfectly  straight,  probably. 
But  if  you  can't,  who  can?  I  don't  happen  to  want  an 
enlightened  opinion  j  I've  got  one,  right  here  at  home. 
You  don't  care  about  the  State :  you  want  to  put  it  into 
white  petticoats  and  see  it  cross  a  muddy  street." 


KATHARINE  FULL^RTON  GEROULD      243 

"  I  don't  wonder  the  socialists  won't  have  an3rthing  to 
do  with  you." 

"  Because  I'm  not  a  feminist  ?  I  know.  Just  as  the 
feminists  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  you  because 
you're  so  reactionary.  We're  both  out  of  it.  Fifty 
years  ago,  either  of  us  could  have  been  a  real  prophet, 
for  the  price  of  a  hall  and  cleaning  the  rotten  eggs  off 
our  clothes.  Now  we're  too  timid  for  any  use.  But  this 
is  a  digression." 

"  Distinctly.     Is  there  anything  more  about  Ferguson  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  there  was.  About  a  year  ago,  he  be- 
came engaged.  She's  a  very  nice  girl,  and  I  am  sure 
you  never  heard  of  her.  The  engagement  wasn't  to  be 
announced  until  just  before  the  marriage,  for  family 
reasons  of  some  sort  —  cockering  the  older  generation 
somehow.  I've  forgotten ;  it's  not  important.  But  they 
would  have  been  married  by  now,  if  Ferguson  hadn't 
stepped  out." 

"  You  seem  to  have  been  very  intimate  with  Fergu- 
son." 

"  He  talked  to  me  once  —  just  once.  The  girl  was  a 
distant  connection  of  my  own.  I  think  that  was  why. 
Now  I've  got  some  more  things  to  tell  you.  I've  let  you 
interrupt  a  good  lot,  and  if  you're  through,  I'd  like  to 
start  in  on  the  next  lap.  It  isn't  easy  for  me  to  tell  this 
thing  in  bits.     It's  an  eflFort." 

Havelock  the  Dane  set  down  his  second  emptied  glass 
and  drew  a  long  breath.  He  proceeded,  with  quickened 
pace. 

Ill 

**  He  didn't  see  the  girl  very  often.  She  lives  at  some 
little  distance.  He  was  busy, —  you  know  how  he 
worked, —  and  she  was  chained  at  home,  more  or  less. 
Occasionally  he  slipped  away  for  a  week-end,  to  see  her. 
One.  time  —  the  last  time,  about  two  months  ago  —  he 
managed  to  get  in  a  whole  week.  It  was  as  near  happi- 
ness as  Ferguson  ever  got,  I  imagine ;  for  they  were  able 


244  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

to  fix  a  date.  Good  heaven,  how  he  loved  that  girl! 
Just  before  he  went,  he  told  me  of  the  engagement.  I 
barely  knew  her,  but,  as  I  said,  she's  some  sort  of  kin. 
Then,  after  he  came  back,  he  sent  for  me  to  come  and  see 
him.  I  didn't  like  his  cheek,  but  I  went  as  though  I  had 
been  a  laboratory  boy.  I'm  not  like  you.  Ferguson  al- 
ways did  get  me.  He  wanted  the  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number.  Nothing  petty  about  him.  He  was  a 
big  man. 

"  I  went,  as  I  say.  And  Ferguson  told  me,  the  very 
first  thing,  that  the  engagement  was  off.  He  began  by 
cocking  his  hair  a  good  deal.  But  he  almost  lost  control 
of  himself.  He  didn't  cock  it  long:  he  ruffled  it  instead, 
with  his  hands.  I  thought  he  was  in  a  queer  state,  for  he 
seemed  to  want  to  give  me,  with  his  beautiful  scientific 
precision  —  as  if  he'd  been  preparing  a  slide  —  the  de- 
tails of  a  country  walk  he  and  she  had  taken  the  day 
before  he  left.  It  began  with  grade-crossings,  and  I 
simply  couldn't  imagine  what  he  was  getting  at.  It 
wasn't  his  business  to  fight  grade-crossings  —  though 
they  might  be  a  very  pretty  symbol  for  the  kind  of  thing 
he  was  fighting,  tooth  and  nail,  all  the  time.  I  couldn't 
seem  to  see  it,  at  first;  but  finally  it  came  out.  There 
was  a  grade-crossing,  with  a  *  Look  out  for  the  Engine ' 
sign,  and  there  was  a  tow-headed  infant  in  rags.  They 
had  noticed  the  infant  before.  It  had  bandy  legs  and 
granulated  eyelids,  and  seemed  to  be  dumb.  It  had 
started  them  off  on  eugenics.  She  was  very  keen  on  the 
subject;  Ferguson,  being  a  big  scientist,  had  some  re- 
serves.    It  was  a  real  argument. 

"  Then  everything  happened  at  once.  Tow-head  with 
the  sore  eyes  rocked  onto  the  track  simultaneously  with 
the  whistle.  They  were  about  fifty  yards  off.  Ferguson 
sprinted  back  down  the  hill,  the  girl  screaming  pointlessly 
meanwhile.  There  was  just  time  —  you'll  have  to  take 
my  word  for  this ;  Ferguson  explained  it  all  to  me  in  the 
most  meticulous  detail,  but  I  can't  repeat  that  masterpiece 
of    exposition —  for    Ferguson    to    decide.     To    decide 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD   245 

again,  you  understand,  precisely  as  he  had  decided  on  the 
Argentina.  Rotten  luck,  wasn't  it?  He  could  just  have 
flung  tow-head  out  of  the  way  by  getting  under  the  engine 
himself.  He  grabbed  for  tow-head,  but  he  didn't  roll 
onto  the  track.  So  tow-head  was  killed.  If  he  had  got 
there  ten  seconds  earlier,  he  could  have  done  the  trick. 
He  was  ten  seconds  too  late  to  save  both  Ferguson  and 
tow-head.  So  —  once  more  —  he  saved  Ferguson.  Do 
you  get  the  situation  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  I  did !  "  shouted  Chantry.  "  Twice  in  a 
man's  life  —  good  Lord!  I  hope  you  walked  out  of  his 
house  at  that  point." 

"  I  didn't.  I  was  very  much  interested.  And  by  the 
way.  Chantry,  if  Ferguson  had  given  his  life  for  tow- 
head,  you  would  have  been  the  first  man  to  write  a  pleas- 
ant little  article  for  some  damned  highbrow  review,  to 
prove  that  it  was  utterly  wrong  that  Ferguson  should 
have  exchanged  his  life  for  that  of  a  little  Polish  defect- 
ive. I  can  even  see  you  talking  about  the  greatest  good 
of  the  greatest  number.  You  would  have  loved  the 
paradox  of  it;  the  mistaken  martyr,  self-preservation  the 
greatest  altruism,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  because 
Ferguson  did  exactly  what  you  would  have  said  in  your 
article  that  he  ought  to  have  done,  you  are  in  a  state  of 
virtuous  chill." 

"  I  should  have  written  no  such  article.  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  be  so  flippant." 

"  Flippant —  I?  Have  I  the  figure  of  a  flippant  man? 
Can't  you  see  —  honestly,  now,  can't  you  see?  —  that  it 
was  a  hideous  misfortune  for  that  situation  to  come  to 
Ferguson  twice?  Can't  you  see  that  it  was  about  as  hard 
luck  as  a  man  ever  had?  Look  at  it  just  once  from  his 
point  of  view." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Chantry  frankly.  "  I  can  understand 
a  man's  being  a  coward,  saving  his  own  skin  because  he 
wants  to.  But  to  save  his  own  skin  on  principle  — 
humph!  Talk  of  paradoxes:  there's  one  for  you. 
There's  not  a  principle  on  earth  that  tells  you  to  save 


246  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

your  own  life  at  some  one's  else  expense.  If  he  thought 
it  was  principle,  he  was  the  bigger  defective  of  the  two. 
Of  course  it  would  have  been  a  pity ;  of  course  we  should 
all  have  regretted  it;  but  there's  not  a  human  being  in 
this  town,  high  or  low,  who  wouldn't  have  applauded, 
with  whatever  regret  —  who  wouldn't  have  said  he  did 
the  only  thing  a  self-respecting  man  could  do.  Of  course 
it's  a  shame ;  but  that  is  the  only  way  the  race  has  ever 
got  on:  by  the  strong,  because  they  were  strong,  going 
under  for  the  weak,  because  they  were  weak.  Otherwise 
we'd  all  be  living,  to  this  day,  in  hell." 

"  I  know ;  I  know,"  Havelock's  voice  was  touched 
with  emotion.  '*  That's  the  convention  —  invented  by  in- 
dividualists, for  individualists.  All  sorts  of  people 
would  see  it  that  way,  still.  But  you've  got  more  sense 
than  most ;  and  I  will  make  you  at  least  see  the  other 
point  of  view.  Suppose  Ferguson  to  have  been  a  good 
Catholic  —  or  a  soldier  in  the  ranks.  If  his  confessor 
or  his  commanding  officer  had  told  him  to  save  his  own 
skin,  you'd  consider  Ferguson  justified ;  you  might  even 
consider  the  priest  or  the  officer  justified.  The  one  thing 
you  can't  stand  is  the  man's  giving  himself  those  orders. 
But  let's  not  argue  over  it  now  —  let's  go  back  to  the 
story.  I'll  make  you  'get'  Ferguson,  anyhow  —  even  if 
I  can't  make  him  '  get '  you. 
"  Well,  here  comes  in  the  girl." 
"  And  you  said  there  was  no  girl  in  it !  " 
Chantry  could  not  resist  that.  He  believed  that  Have- 
lock's assertion  had  been  made  only  because  he  didn't 
want  the  girl  in  it  —  resented  her  being  there. 

"  There  isn't,  as  I  see  it,"  replied  Havelock  the  Dane 
quietly.  "  From  my  point  of  view,  the  story  is  over. 
Ferguson's  decision :  that  is  the  whole  thing  —  made 
more  interesting,  more  valuable,  because  the  repetition  of 
the  thing  proves  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  acted  on  prin- 
ciple, not  on  impulse.  If  he  had  flung  himself  into  the 
life-boat  because  he  was  a  coward,  he  would  have  been 
ashamed  of  it;  and  whatever  he  might  have  done  after- 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD      247 

wards,  he  would  never  have  done  that  thing  again.  He 
would  have  been  sensitive:  not  saving  his  own  life  would 
have  turned  into  an  obsession  with  him.  But  there  is 
left,  I  admit,  the  murder.  And  murders  always  take  the 
public.  So  ril  give  you  the  murder  —  though  it  throws 
no  light  on  Ferguson,  who  is  the  only  thing  in  the  whole 
accursed  affair  that  really  counts." 

"The  murder?  I  don't  see  —  unless  you  mean  the 
murdering  of  the  tow-headed  child." 

"  I  mean  the  murder  of  Ferguson  by  the  girl  he  loved." 

"  You  said  *  suicide '  a  little  while  ago,"  panted  Chan- 
try. 

"  Technically,  yes.  She  was  a  hundred  miles  away 
when  it  happened.  But  she  did  it  just  the  same. 
Oh,  I  suppose  Fve  got  to  tell  you,  as  Ferguson  told  me." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  he  was  going  to  kill  himself  ? " 
Chantry's  voice  was  sharp. 

"  He  did  not.  Ferguson  wasn't  a  fool.  But  it  was 
plain  as  day  to  me  after  it  happened,,  that  he  had  done  it 
hmiself." 

"  How  — " 

"  I'm  telling  you  this,  am  I  not  ?  Let  me  tell  it,  then. 
The  thing  happened  in  no  time,  of  course.  The  girl  got 
over  screaming,  and  ran  down  to  the  track,  frightened 
out  of  her  wits.  The  train  managed  to  stop,  about  twice 
its  own  length  farther  down,  round  a  bend  in  the  track, 
and  the  conductor  and  brakeman  came  running  back. 
The  mother  came  out  of  her  hovel,  carrying  twins.  The 
—  the  —  thing  was  on  the  track,  across  the  rails.  It  was 
a  beastly  mess,  and  Ferguson  got  the  girl  away ;  set  her 
down  to  cry  in  a  pasture,  and  then  went  back  and  helped 
out,  and  gave  his  testimony,  and  left  money,  a  lot  of  it, 
with  the  mother,  and  —  all  the  rest.  You  can  imagine 
it.  No  one  there  considered  that  Ferguson  ought  to 
have  saved  the  child ;  no  one  but  Ferguson  dreamed  that 
he  could  have.  Indeed,  an  ordinary  man,  in  Ferguson's 
place,  wouldn't  have  supposed  he  could.  It  was  only 
that  brain,  working  like  lightning,  working  as  no  plain 


248  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

man's  could,  that  had  made  the  calculation  and  seen. 
There  were  no  preliminary  seconds  lost  in  suri)rise  or 
shock,  you  see.  Ferguson's  mind  hadn't  been  jarred 
from  its  pace  for  an  instant.  The  thing  had  happened 
too  quickly  for  any  one  —  except  Ferguson  —  to  under- 
stand what  was  going  on.  Therefore  he  ought  to  have 
laid  that  super-normal  brain  under  the  wheels,  of  course ! 

"  Ferguson  was  so  sane,  himself,  that  he  couldn't  un- 
derstand, even  after  he  had  been  engaged  six  months, 
our  little  everyday  madnesses.  It  never  occurred  to  him, 
when  he  got  back  to  the  girl  and  she  began  all  sorts  of 
hysterical  questions,  not  to  answer  them  straight.  It 
was  by  way  of  describing  the  event  simply,  that  he  in- 
formed her  that  he  would  just  have  had  time  to  pull  the 
creature  out,  but  not  enough  to  pull  himself  back  after- 
wards. Ferguson  was  used  to  calculating  things  in  mil- 
lionths  of  an  inch ;  she  wasn't.  I  dare  say  the  single 
second  that  had  given  Ferguson  time  to  turn  round  in 
his  mind,  she  conceived  of  as  a  minute,  at  least.  It 
would  have  taken  her  a  week  to  turn  round  in  her  own 
mind,  no  doubt  —  a  month,  a  year,  perhaps.  How  do  I 
know?  But  she  got  the  essential  fact:  that  Ferguson 
had  made  a  choice.  Then  she  rounded  on  him.  It  would 
have  killed  her  to  lose  him,  but  she  would  rather  have  lost 
him  than  to  see  him  standing  before  her,  etc.,  etc.  Fer- 
guson quoted  a  lot  of  her  talk  straight  to  me,  and  I  can 
remember  it;  but  you  needn't  ask  me  to  soil  my  mouth 
with  it.  *  And  half  an  hour  before,  she  had  been  saying 
with  a  good  deal  of  heat  that  that  little  runt  ought  never 
to  have  been  born,  and  that  if  we  had  decent  laws  it 
never  would  have  been  allowed  to  live."  Ferguson  said 
that  to  me,  with  a  kind  of  bewilderment.  You  see,  he 
had  made  the  mistake  of  taking  that  little  fool  seriously. 
Well,  he  loved  her.  You  can't  go  below  that:  that's 
rock-bottom,  Ferguson  couldn't  dig  any  deeper  down 
for  his  way  out.     There  was  no  deeper  down. 

"  Apparently  Ferguson  still  thought  he  could  argue  it 
out  with  her.     She  so  believed  in  eugenics,  you  see  —  a 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD   249 

very  radical,  compared  with  Ferguson.  It  was  she  who 
had  had  no  doubt  about  tow-head.  And  the  love-part  of 
it  seemed  to  him  fixed:  it  didn't  occur  to  him  that  that 
was  debatable.  So  he  stuck  to  something  that  could  be 
discussed.  Then  —  and  this  was  his  moment  of  exceed- 
ing folly  —  he  caught  at  the  old  episode  of  the  Argentina. 
That  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  present  state  of  shock. 
She  had  seen  tow-head ;  but  she  hadn't  seen  the  sprinkled 
Mediterranean.  And  she  had  accepted  that.  At  least, 
she  had  spoken  of  his  survival  as  though  it  had  been  one 
of  the  few  times  when  God  had  done  precisely  the  right 
thing.  So  he  took  that  to  explain  with.  The  fool !  The 
reasonable  fool! 

"Then  —  oh,  then  she  went  wild.  (Yet  she  must 
have  known  there  were  a  thousand  chances  on  the  Ar- 
gentina  for  him  to  throw  his  life  away,  and  precious  few 
to  save  it.)  She  backed  up  against  a  tree  and  stretched 
her  arms  out  like  this  " —  Havelock  made  a  clumsy  stage- 
gesture  of  aversion  from  Chantry,  the  villain.  "  And 
for  an  instant  he  thought  she  was  afraid  of  a  Jersey  cow 
that  had  come  up  to  take  part  in  the  discussion.  So  he 
threw  a  twig  at  its  nose." 

IV     • 

Chantry's  wonder  grew,  swelled,  and  burst. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  that  safety-deposit  vault  of 
a  Ferguson  told  you  all  this  ?  " 

"  As  I  am  telling  it  to  you.  Only  much  more  detail,  of 
course  —  and  much,  much  faster.  It  wasn't  like  a  story 
at  all:  it  was  like  —  like  a  hemorrhage.  I  didn't  inter- 
rupt him  as  you've  been  interrupting  me.  Well,  the 
upshot  of  it  was  that  she  spurned  him  quite  in  the  grand 
manner.  She  found  the  opposites  of  all  the  nice  things 
she  had  been  saying  for  six  months,  and  said  them.  And 
Ferguson  —  your  cocky  Ferguson  —  stood  and  listened, 
until  she  had  talked  herself  out,  and  then  went  away. 
He  never  saw  her  again ;  and  when  he  sent  for  me,  he 


250  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

had  made  up  his  mind  that  she  never  intended  to  take  any 
of  it  back.     So  he  stepped  out,  I  tell  you." 

"  As  hard  hit  as  that,"  Chantry  mused. 

"  Just  as  hard  hit  as  that.  Ferguson  had  had  no  pre- 
vious affairs ;  she  was  very  literally  the  one  woman ;  and 
he  managed,  at  forty,  to  combine  the  illusions  of  the  boy 
of  twenty  and  the  man  of  sixty." 

"  But  if  he  thought  he  was  so  precious  to  the  world, 
wasn't  it  more  than  ever  his  duty  to  preserve  his  exist- 
ence ?  He  could  see  other  people  die  in  his  place,  but  he 
couldn't  see  himself  bucking  up  against  a  broken  heart. 
Isn't  that  what  the  strong  man  does?  Lives  out  his  life 
when  he  doesn't  at  all  like  the  look  of  it?  Say  what  you 
like,  he  was  a  coward,  Havelock  —  at  the  last,  anyhow." 

"  I  won't  ask  for  your  opinion  just  yet,  thank  you. 
Perhaps  if  Ferguson  had  been  sure  he  would  ever  do 
good  work  again,  he  wouldn't  have  taken  himself  off. 
That  might  have  held  him.  He  might  have  stuck  by  on 
the  chance.  But  I  doubt  it.  Don't  you  see?  He  loved 
the  girl  too  much." 

"  Thought  he  couldn't  live  without  her,"  snorted  Chan- 
try. 

"  Oh,  no  —  not  that.  But  if  she  was  right,  he  was  the 
meanest  skunk  alive.  He  owed  the  world  at  least  two 
deaths,  so  to  speak.  The  only  approach  you  can  make 
to  dying  twice  is  to  die  in  your  prime,  of  your  own  voli- 
tion." Havelock  spoke  very  slowly.  "At  least,  that's 
the  way  I've  worked  it  out.  He  didn't  say  so.  He  was 
careful  as  a  cat." 

"  You  think  " —  Chantry  leaned  forward,  very  eager 
at  last — "that  he  decided  she  was  right?  That  I'm 
right  —  that  we're  all  of  us  right  ?  " 

Havelock  the  Dane  bowed  his  head  in  his  huge  hands. 
"  No.  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  kept  his  own  opinion 
untarnished  to  the  end.  When  I  told  him  I  thought  he 
was  right,  he  just  nodded,  as  if  one  took  that  for  granted. 
But  it  didn't  matter  to  him.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  he 
cared  only  what  she  thought." 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD      251 

"  If  he  didn't  agree  with  her  ?  And  if  she  had  treated 
him  like  a  criminal  ?  He  must  have  despised  her,  in  that 
case." 

"  He  never  said  one  word  of  her  —  bar  quoting  some 
of  her  words  —  that  wasn't  utterly  gentle.  You  could 
see  that  he  loved  her  with  his  whole  soul.  And  —  it's 
my  belief  —  he  gave  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  In 
killing  himself,  he  acted  on  the  hypothesis  that  she 
had  been  right.  It  was  the  one  thing  he  could  do  for 
her." 

"  But  if  no  one  except  you  thinks  it  was  suicide  — 
and  you  can't  prove  it  — " 

"  Oh,,  he  had  to  take  that  chance  —  the  chance  of  her 
never  knowing  —  or  else  create  a  scandal.  And  that 
would  have  been  very  hard  on  her  and  on  his  family. 
But  there  were  straws  she  could  easily  clutch  at  —  as  I 
have  clutched  at  them.  The  perfect  order  in  which 
everything  happened  to  be  left  —  even  the  last  notes  he 
had  made.  His  laboratory  was  a  scientist's  paradise, 
they  tell  me.  And  the  will,  made  after  she  threw  him 
over,  leaving  everything  to  her.  Not  a  letter  unanswered, 
all  little  bills  paid,  and  little  debts  liquidated.  He  came 
as  near  suggesting  it  as  he  could,  in  decency.  But  I 
dare  say  she  will  never  guess  it." 

"  Then  what  did  it  profit  him?  " 

"  It  didn't  profit  him,  in  your  sense.  He  took  a  very 
long  chance  on  her  guessing.  That  wasn't  what  con- 
cerned him." 

"  I  hope  she  will  never  guess,  anyhow.  It  would  ruin 
her  life,  to  no  good  end." 

"  Oh,  no."  Havelock  was  firm.  "  I  doubt  if  she 
would  take  it  that  way.  If  she  grasped  it  at  all,  she'd 
believe  he  thought  her  right.  And  if  he  thought  her 
right,  of  course  he  woulcln't  want  to  live,  would  he? 
She  would  never  think  he  killed  himself  simply  for  love 
of  her." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  she  wouldn't  ?     She  wouldn't  be  able  to  con- 


252  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

ceive  of  Ferguson's  killing  himself  merely  for  that  — 
with  his  notions  about  survival." 

"As  he  did." 

"  As  he  did  —  and  didn't." 

"  Ah,  she'd  scarcely  refine  on  it  as  you  are  doing, 
Havelock.     You're  amazing." 

"  Well,  he  certainly  never  expected  her  to  know  that 
he  did  it  himself.  If  he  had  been  the  sort  of  weakling 
that  dies  because  he  can't  have  a  particular  woman,  he'd 
have  been  also  the  sort  of  weakling  that  leaves  a  letter 
explaining." 

"  What  then  did  he  die  for?  You'll  have  to  explain  to 
me.  Not  because  he  couldn't  have  her;  not  because  he 
felt  guilty.  Why,  then?  You  haven't  left  him  a  mo- 
tive." 

"Oh,  haven't  I?  The  most  beautiful  motive  in  the 
whole  world,  my  dear  fellow  A  motive  that  puts  all 
your  little  simple  motives  in  the  shade." 

"  Well,  what  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  Why,  I  told  you.  He  simply  as- 
sumed, for  all  practical  purposes,  that  she  had  been  right. 
He  gave  himself  the  fate  he  knew  she  considered  him  to 
deserve.  He  preferred  —  loving  her  as  he  did  —  to  do 
what  she  would  have  had  him  do.  He  knew  she  was 
wrong ;  but  he  knew  also  that  she  was  made  that  way, 
that  she  would  never  be  right.  And  he  took  her  for 
what  she  was,  and  loved  her  as  she  was.  His  love  — 
don't  you  see  ?  —  was  too  big.  He  couldn't  revolt  from 
her :  she  had  the  whole  of  him  —  except,  perhaps,  his 
excellent  judgment.  He  couldn't  drag  about  a  life  which 
she  felt  that  way  about.  He  destroyed  it,  as  he  would 
have  destroyed  anything  she  found  loathsome.  He  was 
merely  justifying  himself  to  his  love.  He  couldn't  hope 
she  would  know.  Nor,  I  believe,  could  he  have  lied 
to  her.  That  is.  he  couldn't  have  admitted  in  words 
that  she  was  right,  when  he  felt  her  so  absolutely 
wrong;  but  he  could  make  that  magnificent  silent  act  of 
faith." 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD  253 

Chantry  still  held  out.  "  I  don't  believe  he  did  it.  I 
hold  with  the  coroner." 

"  I  don't.  He  came  as  near  telling  me  as  he  could 
without  making  me  an  accessory  before  the  fact.  There 
were  none  of  the  loose  ends  that  the  most  orderly  man 
would  leave  if  he  died  suddenly.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
old  man." 

A  long  look  passed  between  them.  Each  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  find  out  with  his  eyes  something  that  words 
had  not  helped  him  to. 

Finally  Chantry  protested  once  more.  "  But  Ferguson 
couldn't  love  like  that." 

tiavelock  the  Dane  laid  one  hand  on  the  arm  of  Chan- 
try's chair  and  spoke  sternly,  "  He  not  only  could,  but 
did.  And  there  I  am  a  better  authority  than  you.  Think 
what  you  please,  but  I  will  not  have  that  fact  challenged. 
Perhaps  you  could  count  up  on  your  fingers  the  women 
who  are  loved  like  that ;  but,  anyhow,  she  was.  My  sec- 
ond cousin  once  removed,  damn  her !  "  He  ended  with 
a  vicious  twang. 

"  And  now  " — Havelock  rose  — "  I'd  like  your  opin- 
ion." 

"About  what?" 

"  Well,  can't  you  see  the  beautiful  sanity  of  Fergu- 
son?" 

"  No,  I  can't,"  snapped  Chantry.  "  I  think  he  was 
wrong,  both  in  the  beginning  and  in  the  end.  But  I  will 
admit  he  was  not  a  coward.  I  respect  him,  but  I  do  not 
think,  at  any  point,  he  was  right  —  except  perhaps  in 
'  doing  '  the  coroner." 

"  That  settles  it,  then,"  said  Havelock.  And  he  started 
towards  the  door. 

"  Settles  what,  in  heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  What  I  came  to  have  settled.  I  shan't  tell  her.  If 
I  could  have  got  one  other  decent  citizen  —  and  I  confess 
you  were  my  only  chance  —  to  agree  with  me  that  Fergu- 
son was  right, —  right  about  his  fellow  passengers  on  the 
Argentina,  right  about  tow-head  on  the  track, —  I'd  have 


254 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 


gone  to  her,  I  think.  I'd  rather  Hke  to  ruin  her  life,  if 
I  could." 

A  great  conviction  approached  Chantry  just  then.  He 
felt  the  rush  of  it  through  his  brain. 

"  No,"  he  cried.  "  Ferguson  loved  her  too  much. 
He  wouldn't  like  that  —  not  as  you'd  put  it  to  her." 

Havelock  thought  a  moment.  "  No,"  he  said  in  turn ; 
but  his  "  no  "  was  very  humble.  "  He  wouldn't.  I  shall 
never  do  it.     But,  my  God,  how  I  wanted  to !  " 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing,  too."  Chantry's 
tone  was  curious.  "  You  may  agree  with  Ferguson  all 
you  like ;  you  may  admire  him  as  much  as  you  say ;  but 
you,  Havelock,  would  never  have  done  what  he  did. 
Not  even  " —  he  lifted  a  hand  against  interruption  — "  if 
you  knew  you  had  the  brain  you  think  Ferguson  had. 
You'd  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  or  under  the 
engine  wheels,  and  you  know  it." 

He  folded  his  arms  with  a  hint  of  truculence. 

But  Havelock  the  Dane,  to  Chantry's  surprise,  was 
meek.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know  it.  Now  let  me  out  of 
here." 

"  Well,  then," —  Chantry's  voice  rang  out  triumphant, 
— "  what  does  that  prove  ?  " 

"  Prove  ?  "  Havelock's  great  fist  crashed  down  on  the 
table.  "  It  proves  that  Ferguson's  a  better  man  than 
either  of  us.  I  can  think  straight,  but  he  had  the  sand 
to  act  straight.  You  haven't  even  the  sand  to  think 
straight.  You  and  your  reactionary  rot!  The  world's 
moving,  Chantry.  Ferguson  was  ahead  of  it,  beckoning. 
You're  an  ant  that  got  caught  in  the  machinery,  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Oh,  stow  the  rhetoric !  We  simply  don't  agree. 
It's  happened  before."  Chantry  laughed  scornfully.  "  I 
tell  you  I  respect  him ;  but  God  Almighty  wouldn't  make 
me  agree  with  him." 

"  You're  too  mediaeval  by  half,"  Havelock  mused. 
"  Now,  Ferguson  was  a  knight  of  the  future  —  a  knight 
of  Humanity." 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD   255 

"  Don't !  "  shouted  Chantry.  His  nerves  were  begin- 
ning to  feel  the  strain.  "  Leave  chivalry  out  of  it.  The 
Argentina  business  may  or  may  not  have  been  wisdom, 
but  it  certainly  wasn't  cricket." 

"  No,"  said  Havelock.  "  Chess,  rather.  The  game 
where  chance  hasn't  a  show  —  the  game  of  the  intelligent 
future.  That  very  irregular  and  disconcerting  move  of 
his.  .  .  .  And  he  got  taken,  you  might  say.  She's  an 
irresponsible  beast,  your  queen." 

"  Drop  it,  will  you !  "  Then  Chantry  pulled  himself 
together,  a  little  ashamed.  "  It's  fearfully  late.  Better 
stop  and  dine." 

"  No,  thanks."  The  big  man  opened  the  door  of  the 
room  and  rested  a  foot  on  the  threshold.  "  I  feel  like 
dining  with  some  one  who  appreciates  Ferguson." 

"  I  don't  know  where  you'll  find  him."  Chantry  smiled 
and  shook  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  carry  him  about  with  me.  Good-night,"  said 
Havelock  the  Dane. 


w 


A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS ' 

By  SUSAN  GLASPELL 

From  Every   Week 

HEN  Martha  Hale  opened  the  storm-door  and 
got  a  cut  of  the  north  wind,  she  ran  back  for 
her  big  woolen  scarf.  As  she  hurriedly  wound  that 
round  her  head  her  eye  made  a  scandaHzed  sweep  of  her 
kitchen.  It  was  no  ordinary  thing  that  called  her  away 
—  it  was  probably  farther  from  ordinary  than  anything 
that  had  ever  happened  in  Dickson  County.  But  what 
her  eye  took  in  was  that  her  kitchen  was  in  no  shape  for 
leaving:  her  bread  all  ready  for  mixing,  half  the  flour 
sifted  and  half  unsifted. 

She  hated  to  see  things  half  done;  but  she  had  been 
at  that  when  the  team  from  town  stopped  to  get  Mr.  Hale, 
and  then  the  sheriff  came  running  in  to  say  his  wife 
wished  Mrs.  Hale  would  come  too  —  adding,  with  a  grin, 
that  he  guessed  she  was  getting  scarey  and  wanted  an- 
other woman  along.  So  she  had  dropped  everything 
right  where  it  was. 

"  Martha !  "  now  came  her  husband's  impatient  voice. 
"  Don't  keep  folks  waiting  out  here  in  the  cold." 

She  again  opened  the  storm-door,  and  this  time  joined 
the  three  rnen  and  the  one  woman  waiting  for  her  in 
the  big  two-seated  buggy. 

After  she  had  the  robes  tucked  around  her  she  took 
another  look  at  the  woman  who  sat  beside  her  on  the 
back  seat.  She  had  met  Mrs.  Peters  the  year  before  at 
the  county   fair,  and  the  thing  she  remembered  about 

1  Copyright,  191 7,  by  The  Crowell  Publishing  Company.  Copyright, 
1918,  by  Susan  Glaspell  Cook 

256 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  257 

her  was  that  she  didn't  seem  like  a  sheriff's  wife.  She 
was  small  and  thin  and  didn't  have  a  strong  voice.  Mrs. 
Gorman,  sheriff's  wife  before  Gorman  went  out  and 
Peters  came  in,  had  a  voice  that  somehow  seemed  to  be 
backing  up  the  law  with  every  word.  But  if  Mrs.  Peters 
didn't  look  like  a  sheriff's  wife,  Peters  made  it  up  in 
looking  like  a  sheriff.  He  was  to  a  dot  the  kind  of  man 
who  could  get  himself  elected  sheriff  —  a  heavy  man  with 
a  big  voice,  who  was  particularly  genial  with  the  law- 
abiding,  as  if  to  make  it  plain  that  he  knew  the  difference 
between  criminals  and  non-criminals.  And  right  there 
it  came  into  Mrs.  Hale's  mind,  with  a  stab,  that  this  man 
v/ho  was  so  pleasant  and  lively  with  all  of  them  was 
going  to  the  Wrights'  now  as  a  sheriff. 

"  The  country's  not  very  pleasant  this  time  of  year," 
Mrs.  Peters  at  last  ventured,  as  if  she  felt  they  ought 
to  be  talking  as  well  as  the  men. 

Mrs.  Hale  scarcely  finished  her  reply,  for  they  had 
gone  up  a  little  hill  and  could  see  the  Wright  place  now, 
and  seeing  it  did  not  make  her  feel  like  talking.  It 
looked  very  lonesome  this  cold  March  morning.  It  had 
always  been  a  lonesome-looking  place.  It  was  down  in 
a  hollow,  and  the  poplar  trees  around  it  were  lonesome- 
looking  trees.  The  men  were  looking  at  it  and  talking 
about  what  had  happened.  The  county  attorney  was 
bending  to  one  side  of  the  buggy,  and  kept  looking  stead- 
ily at  the  place  as  they  drew  up  to  it. 

"  I'm  glad  you  came  with  me,"  Mrs.  Peters  said 
nervously,  as  the  two  women  were  about  to  follow  the 
men  in  through  the  kitchen  door. 

Even  after  she  had  her  foot  on  the  door-step,  her  hand 
on  the  knob,  Martha  Hale  had  a  moment  of  feeling  she 
could  not  cross  that  threshold.  And  the  reason  it  seemed 
she  couldn't  cross  it  now  was  simply  because  she  hadn't 
crossed  it  before.  Time  and  time  again  it  had  been  in 
her  mind,  "  I  ought  to  go  over  and  see  Minnie  Foster  " 
—  she  still  thought  of  her  as  Minnie  Foster,  though  for 
twenty  years  she  had  been  Mrs.  Wright.     And  then  there 


258  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

was  always  something  to  do  and  Minnie  Foster  would  go 
from  her  mind.     But  now  she  could  come. 

The  men  went  over  to  the  stove.  The  women  stood 
close  together  by  the  door.  Young  Henderson,  the 
county  attorney,  turned  around  and  said,  "  Come  up  to 
the  fire,  ladies." 

Mrs.  Peters  took  a  step  forward,  then  stopped.  "  Fm 
not  —  cold,"  she  said. 

And  so  the  two  women  stood  by  the  door,  at  first  not 
even  so  much  as  looking  around  the  kitchen. 

The  men  talked  for  a  minute  about  what  a  good  thing 
it  was  the  sherifif  had  sent  his  deputy  out  that  morning  to 
make  a  fire  for  them,  and  then  Sheriff  Peters  stepped 
back  from  the  stove,  unbuttoned  his  outer  coat,  and 
leaned  his  hands  on  the  kitchen  table  in  a  way  that 
seemed  to  mark  the  beginning  of  official  business. 
"  Now,  Mr.  Hale,"  he  said  in  a  sort  of  semi-official  voice, 
"  before  we  move  things  about,  you  tell  Mr.  Henderson 
just  what  it  was  you  saw  when  you  came  here  yesterday 
morning." 

The  county  attorney  was  looking  around  the  kitchen. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  has  anything  been  moved?  " 
He  turned  to  the  sherifif.  "  Are  things  just  as  you  left 
them  yesterday  ?  " 

Peters  looked  from  cupboard  to  sink;  from  that  to 
a  small  worn  rocker  a  little  to  one  side  of  the  kitchen 
table. 

"  It's  just  the  same." 

"  Somebody  should  have  been  left  here  yesterday,"  said 
the  county  attorney. 

"  Oh  —  yesterday,"  returned  the  sheriff,  with  a  little 
gesture  as  of  yesterday  having  been  more  than  he  could 
bear  to  think  of.  "  When  I  had  to  send  Frank  to  Morris 
Center  for  that  man  who  went  crazy  —  let  me  tell  you, 
I  had  my  hands  full  yesterday.  I  knew  you  could  get 
back  from  Omaha  by  to-day,  George,  and  as  long  as  I 
went  over  everything  here  myself  — " 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  259 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hale,"  said  the  county  attorney,  in  a  way 
of  letting  what  was  past  and  gone  go,  "  tell  just  what 
happened  when  you  came  here  yesterday  morning." 

Mrs.  Hale,  still  leaning  against  the  door,  had  that 
sinking  feeling  of  the  mother  whose  child  is  about  to 
speak  a  piece.  Lewis  often  wandered  along  and  got 
things  mixed  up  in  a  story.  She  hoped  he  would  tell 
this  straight  and  plain,  and  not  say  unnecessary  things 
that  would  just  make  things  harder  for  Minnie  Foster. 
He  didn't  begin  at  once,  and  she  noticed  that  he  looked 
queer  —  as  if  standing  in  that  kitchen  and  having  to  tell 
what  he  had  seen  there  yesterday  morning  made  him 
almost  sick. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Hale  ?  "  the  county  attorney  reminded. 

"  Harry  and  I  had  started  to  town  with  a  load  of 
potatoes,"  Mrs.  Hale's  husband  began. 

Harry  was  Mrs,  Hale's  oldest  boy.  He  wasn't  with 
them  now,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  those  potatoes 
never  got  to  town  yesterday  and  he  was  taking  them  this 
morning,  so  he  hadn't  been  home  when  the  sheriff  stopped 
to  say  he  wanted  Mr.  Hale  to  come  over  to  the  Wright 
place  and  tell  the  county  attorney  his  story  there,  where 
he  could  point  it  all  out.  With  all  Mrs.  Hale's  other 
emotions  came  the  fear  now  that  maybe  Harry  wasn't 
dressed  warm  enough  —  they  hadn't  any  of  them  realized 
how  that  north  wind  did  bite. 

"  We  come  along  this  road,"  Hale  was  going  on,  with 
a  motion  of  his  hand  to  the  road  over  which  they  had 
just  come,  "  and  as  we  got  in  sight  of  the  house  I  says 
to  Harry,  *  I'm  goin'  to  see  if  I  can't  get  John  Wright 
to  take  a  telephone.'  You  see,"  he  explained  to  Hender- 
son, "  unless  I  can  get  somebody  to  go  in  with  me  they 
won't  come  out  this  branch  road  except  for  a  price  / 
can't  pay.  I'd  spoke  to  Wright  about  it  once  before ;  but 
he  put  me  off,  saying  folks  talked  too  much  anyway,  and 
all  he  asked  was  peace  and  quiet  —  guess  you  know  about 
how  much  he  talked  himself.  But  I  thought  maybe  if  I 
went  to  the  house  and  talked  about  it  before  his  wife, 


26o  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

and  said  all  the  women- folks  liked  the  telephones,  and 
that  in  this  lonesome  stretch  of  road  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  —  well,  I  said  to  Harry  that  that  was  what  1  was 
going  to  say  —  though  1  said  at  the  same  time  that  I 
didn't  know  as  what  his  wife  wanted  made  much  differ- 
ence to  John  — " 

Now,  there  he  was !  —  saying  things  he  didn't 
need  to  say.  Mrs.  Hale  tried  to  catch  her  husband's 
eye,  but  fortunately  the  county  attorney  interrupted 
with : 

"  Let's  talk  about  that  a  little  later,  Mr.  Hale.  I  do 
want  to  talk  about  that,  but  I'm  anxious  now  to  get  along 
to  just  what  happened  when  you  got  here." 

When  he  began  this  time,  it  was  very  deliberately  and 
carefully : 

"  I  didn't  see  or  hear  anything.  I  knocked  at  the  door. 
And  still  it  was  all  quiet  inside.  I  knew  they  must  be 
up  —  it  was  past  eight  o'clock.  So  I  knocked  again, 
louder,  and  I  thought  I  heard  somebody  say,  '  Come  in.' 
I  wasn't  sure  —  I'm  not  sure  yet.  But  I  opened  the  door 
—  this  door,"  jerking  a  hand  toward  the  door  by  which 
the  two  women  stood,  "  and  there,  in  that  rocker  " — 
pointing  to  it — "  sat  Mrs.  Wright." 

Every  one  in  the  kitchen  looked  at  the  rocker.  It  came 
into  Mrs.  Hale's  mind  that  that  rocker  didn't  look  in  the 
least  like  ]\Iinnie  Foster  —  the  INIinnie  Foster  of  twenty 
years  before.  It  was  a  dingy  red,  with  wooden  rungs  up 
the  back,  and  the  middle  rung  was  gone,  and  the  chair 
sagged  to  one  side. 

"  How  did  she  —  look  ?  "  the  county  attorney  was  in- 
quiring. 

"  Well,"  said  Hale,  "  she  looked  —  queer." 

"  How  do  you  mean  —  queer  ?  " 

As  he  asked  it  he  took  out  a  note-book  and  pencil. 
Mrs.  Hale  did  not  like  the  sight  of  that  pencil.  She  kept 
her  eye  fixed  on  her  husband,  as  if  to  keep  him  from 
saying  unnecessary  things  that  would  go  into  that  note- 
book and  make  trouble. 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  261 

Hale  did  speak  guardedly,  as  if  the  pencil  had  affected 
him  too. 

"  Well,  as  if  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  going  to 
do  next.     And  kind  of  —  done  up." 

"  How  did  she  seem  to  feel  about  your  coming?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  think  she  minded  —  one  way  or  other. 
She  didn't  pay  much  attention.  I  said,  '  Ho'  do,  Mrs. 
Wright  ?  It's  cold,  ain't  it  ? '  And  she  said,  'Is  it  ?  '— 
and  went  on  pleatin'  at  her  apron. 

"  Well,  I  was  surprised.  She  didn't  ask  me  to  come 
up  to  the  stove,  or  to  sit  down,  but  just  set  there,  not 
even  lookin'  at  me.  And  so  I  said :  '  I  want  to  see 
John.' 

"And  then  she  —  laughed.  I  guess  you  would  call  it 
a  laugh. 

"  I  thought  of  Harry  and  the  team  outside,  so  I  said, 
a  little  sharp,  *  Can  I  see  John  ?  '  '  No,'  says  she  —  kind 
of  dull  like.  '  Ain't  he  home? '  says  I.  Then  she  looked 
at  me.  '  Yes,'  says  she,  *  he's  home.'  '  Then  why  can't 
I  see  him?'  I  asked  her,  out  of  patience  with  her  now. 
''Cause  he's  dead,'  says  she,  just  as  quiet  and  dull  — 
and  fell  to  pleatin'  her  apron.  '  Dead?'  says  I,  like  you 
do  when  you  can't  take  in  what  you've  heard. 

"  She  just  nodded  her  head,  not  getting  a  bit  excited, 
but  rockin'  back  and  forth, 

"  '  Why  —  where  is  he?  *  says  I,  not  knowing  what  to 
say. 

"  She  just  pointed  upstairs  —  like  this  " —  pointing  to 
the  room  above. 

"  I  got  up,  with  the  idea  of  going  up  there  myself.  By 
this  time  I  —  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  walked  from 
there  to  here  ;  then  I  says :     '  Why,  what  did  he  die  of  ?  ' 

"  '  He  died  of  a  rope  round  his  neck,'  says  she ;  and  just 
went  on  pleatin'  at  her  apron." 

Hale  stopped  speaking,  and  stood  staring  at  the  rocker, 
as  if  he  were  still  seeing  the  woman  who  had  sat  there  the 
morning  before.     Nobody  spoke;  it  was  as  if  every  one 


262  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

were  seeing  the  woman  who  had  sat  there  the  morning 
before. 

"  And  what  did  you  do  then  ? "  the  county  attorney  at 
last  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  went  out  and  called  Harry.  I  thought  I  might  — 
need  help.  I  got  Harry  in,  and  we  went  upstairs."  His 
voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper.  "There  he  was  —  lying 
over  the  — " 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  have  you  go  into  that  upstairs,"  the 
county  attorney  interrupted,  "  where  you  can  point  it  all 
out.     Just  go  on  now  with  the  rest  of  the  story." 

"  Well,  my  first  thought  was  to  get  that  rope  off.  It 
looked  — " 

He  stopped,  his  face  twitching. 

"  But  Harry,  he  went  up  to  him,  and  he  said,  '  No,  he's 
dead  all  right,  and  we'd  better  not  touch  anything.'  So 
we  went  downstairs. 

"  She  was  still  sitting  that  same  way.  '  Has  anybody 
been  notified  ?  '  I  asked.     '  No,'  says  she,  unconcerned. 

"  '  Who  did  this,  Mrs.  Wright? '  said  Harry.  He  said 
it  businesslike,  and  she  stopped  pleatin'  at  her  apron. 
'I  don't  know,'  she  says.  'You  don't  knoivf '  says 
Harry.  '  Weren't  you  sleepin'  in  the  bed  with  him  ? ' 
'  Yes,'  says  she,  '  but  I  was  on  the  inside.'  *  Somebody 
slipped  a  rope  round  his  neck  and  strangled  him,  and  you 
didn't  wake  up?'  says  Harry.  'I  didn't  wake  up,'  she 
said  after  him. 

"  We  may  have  looked  as  if  we  didn't  see  how  that 
could  be,  for  after  a  minute  she  said,  '  I  sleep  sound.' 

"  Harry  was  going  to  ask  her  more  questions,  but  I 
said  maybe  that  weren't  our  business ;  maybe  we  ought 
to  let  her  tell  her  story  first  to  the  coroner  or  the  sheriff. 
So  Harry  went  fast  as  he  could  over  to  High  Road  — 
the  Rivers'  place,  where  there's  a  telephone." 

"  And  what  did  she  do  when  she  knew  you  had  gone 
for  the  coroner  ?  "  The  attorney  got  his  pencil  in  his 
hand  all  ready  for  writing. 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  263 

"  She  moved  from  that  chair  to  this  one  over  here  " — 
Hale  pointed  to  a  small  chair  in  the  corner — "  and  just 
sat  there  with  her  hands  held  together  and  looking  down. 
I  got  a  feeling  that  I  ought  to  make  some  conversation, 
so  I  said  I  had  come  in  to  see  if  John  wanted  to  put  in  a 
telephone ;  and  at  that  she  started  to  laugh,  and  then  she 
stopped  and  looked  at  me  —  scared." 

At  sound  of  a  moving  pencil  the  man  who  was  telling 
the  story  looked  up. 

"  I  dunno  —  maybe  it  wasn't  scared,"  he  hastened ;  "  I 
wouldn't  like  to  say  it  was.  Soon  Harry  got  back,  and 
then  Dr.  Lloyd  came,  and  you,  Mr.  Peters,  and  so  I  guess 
that's  all  I  know  that  you  don't." 

He  said  that  last  with  relief,  and  moved  a  little,  as  if 
relaxing.  Every  one  moved  a  little.  The  county  attor- 
ney walked  toward  the  stair  door. 

"  I  guess  we'll  go  upstairs  first  —  then  out  to  the  barn 
and  around  there." 

He  paused  and  looked  around  the  kitchen. 

"  You're  convinced  there  was  nothing  important  here  ?  " 
he  asked  the  sheriff.  "  Nothing  that  would  —  point  to 
any  motive  ?  " 

The  sheriff  too  looked  all  around,  as  if  to  re-convince 
himself. 

"  Nothing  here  but  kitchen  things,"  he  said,  with  a 
little  laugh  for  the  insignificance  of  kitchen  things. 

The  county  attorney  was  looking  at  the  cupboard  —  a 
peculiar,  ungainly  structure,  half  closet  and  half  cup- 
board, the  upper  part  of  it  being  built  in  the  wall,  and  the 
lower  part  just  the  old-fashioned  kitchen  cupboard.  As 
if  its  queerness  attracted  him,  he  got  a  chair  and  opened 
the  upper  part  and  looked  in.  After  a  moment  he  drew 
his  hand  away  sticky. 

"  Here's  a  nice  mess,"  he  said  resentfully. 

The  two  women  had  drawn  nearer,  and  now  the 
sheriff's  wife  spoke. 


264  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  Oh  —  her  fruit,"  she  said,  looking  to  Mrs.  Hale  for 
sympathetic  understanding.  She  turned  back  to  the 
county  attorney  and  explained :  "  She  worried  about 
that  when  it  turned  so  cold  last  night.  She  said  the  fire 
would  go  out  and  her  jars  might  burst." 

Mrs.  Peters'  husband  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  can  you  beat  the  women !  Held  for  murder, 
and  worrying  about  her  preserves !  " 

The  young  attorney  set  his  lips. 

"  I  guess  before  we're  through  with  her  she  may  have 
something  more  serious  than  preserves  to  worry  about." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Hale's  husband,  with  good- 
natured  superfcrity,  "  women  are  used  to  worrying  over 
trifles." 

The  two  women  moved  a  little  closer  together. 
Neither  of  them  spoke.  The  county  attorney  seemed 
suddenly  to  remember  his  manners  —  and  think  of  his 
future. 

"  And  yet,"  said  he,  with  the  gallantry  of  a  young 
politician,  "  for  all  their  worries,  what  would  we  do  with- 
out the  ladies  ?  " 

The  women  did  not  speak,  did  not  unbend.  He  went 
to  the  sink  and  began  washing  his  hands.  He  turned  to 
wipe  them  on  the  roller  towel  —  whirled  it  for  a  cleaner 
place. 

"  Dirty  towels !  Not  much  of  a  housekeeper,  would 
you  say,  ladies  ?  " 

He  kicked  his  foot  against  some  dirty  pans  under  the 
sink. 

"  There's  a  great  deal  of  work  to  be  done  on  a  farm," 
said  Mrs.  Hale  stiffly. 

"  To  be  sure.  And  yet  " —  with  a  little  bow  to  her  — 
"  I  know  there  are  some  Dickson  County  farm-houses 
that  do  not  have  such  roller  towels."  He  gave  it  a  pull 
to  expose  its  full  length  again. 

"  Those  towels  ^et  dirty  awful  quick.  Men's  hands 
aren't  always  as  clean  as  they  might  be." 

"  Ah,   loyal   to   your   sex,    I    see,"   he    laughed.     He 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  265 

stopped  and  gave  her  a  keen  look.  "  But  you  and  Mrs. 
Wright  were  neighbors.  I  suppose  you  were  friends, 
too." 

Martha  Hale  shook  her  head. 

"  I've  seen  little  enough  of  her  of  late  years.  I've  not 
been  in  this  house  —  it's  more  than  a  year." 

"  And  why  was  that?     You  didn't  Hke  her?  " 

'*  I  liked  her  well  enough,"  she  replied  with  spirit. 
"  Farmers'  wives  have  their  hands  full,  Mr.  Henderson. 
And  then — "     She  looked  around  the  kitchen. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  encouraged. 

"  It  never  seemed  a  very  cheerful  place,"  said  she, 
more  to  herself  than  to  him. 

"  No,"  he  agreed ;  "  I  don't  think  any  one  would  call 
it  cheerful.  I  shouldn't  say  she  had  the  home-making 
instinct." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  Wright  had,  either,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

"  You  mean  they  didn't  get  on  very  well  ?  "  he  was 
quick  to  ask. 

"  No ;  I  don't  mean  anything,"  she  answered,  with  de- 
cision. As  she  turned  a  little  away  from  him,  she  added : 
"  But  I  don't  think  a  place  would  be  any  the  cheerfuler 
for  John  Wright's  bein'  in  it." 

"  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  that  a  little  later,  Mrs. 
Hale,"  he  said.  "  I'm  anxious  to  get  the  lay  of  things 
upstairs  now." 

He  moved  toward  the  stair  door,  followed  by  the  two 
men. 

"  I  suppose  anything  Mrs.  Peters  does'll  be  all  right  ? " 
the  sheriff  inquired.  "  She  was  to  take  in  some  clothes 
for  her,  you  know  —  and  a  few  little  things.  We  left 
in  such  a  hurry  yesterday." 

The  county  attorney  looked  at  the  two  women  whom 
they  were  leaving  alone  there  among  the  kitchen  things. 

"  Yes  —  Mrs.  Peters,"  he  said,  his  glance  resting  on 
the  woman  who  was  not  Mrs.  Peters,  the  big  farmer 
woman    who    stood    behind    the    sheriff's    wife.     "Of 


266  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

course  Mrs.  Peters  is  one  of  us,"  he  said,  in  a  manner 
of  entrusting  responsibility.  "  And  keep  your  eye  out, 
Mrs.  Peters,  for  anything  that  might  be  of  use.  No 
telling ;  you  women  might  come  upon  a  clue  to  the  motive 
—  and  that's  the  thing  we  need." 

Mr.  Hale  rubbed  his  face  after  the  fashion  of  a  show 
man  getting  ready  for  a  pleasantry. 

"  But  would  the  women  know  a  clue  if  they  did  come 
upon  it?"  he  said;  and,  having  delivered  himself  of  this, 
he  followed  the  others  through  the  stair  door. 

The  women  stood  motionless  and  silent,  listening  to 
the  footsteps,  first  upon  the  stairs,  then  in  the  room 
above  them. 

Then,  as  if  releasing  herself  from  something  strange, 
Mrs.  Hale  began  to  arrange  the  dirty  pans  under  the 
sink,  which  the  county  attorney's  disdainful  push  of  the 
foot  had  deranged. 

"  I'd  hate  to  have  'men  comin'  into  my  kitchen,"  she 
said  testily  — "  snoopin'  round  and  criticizin'." 

"  Of  course  it's  no  more  than  their  duty,"  said  the 
sheriff's  wife,  in  her  manner  of  timid  acquiescence.  ■ 

"Duty's  all  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Hale  bluffly;  "but 
I  guess  that  deputy  sheriff  that  come  out  to  make  the  fire 
might  have  got  a  little  of  this  on."  She  gave  the  roller 
towel  a  pull.  "Wish  Pd  thought  of  that  sooner! 
Seems  mean  to  talk  about  her  for  not  having  things 
slicked  up.  when  she  had  to  come  away  in  such  a  hurry." 

She  looked  around  the  kitchen.  Certainly  it  was  not 
"  slicked  up."  Her  eye  was  held  by  a  bucket  of  sugar 
on  a  low  shelf.  The  cover  was  off  the  wooden  bucket, 
and  beside  it  was  a  paper  bag  —  half  full. 

Mrs.  Hale  moved  toward  it. 

"  She  was  putting  this  in  there,"  she  said  to  herself  — 
slowly. 

She  thought  of  the  flour  in  her  kitchen  at  home  — 
half  sifted,  half  not  sifted.  She  had  been  interrupted, 
and  had  left  things  half  done.     What  had  interrupted 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  267 

Minnie  Foster?  Why  had  that  work  been  left  half 
done?  She  made  a  move  as  if  to  finish  it, —  unfinished 
things  always  bothered  her, —  and  then  she  glanced 
around  and  saw  that  Mrs.  Peters  was  watching  her  — 
and  she  didn't  want  Mrs.  Peters  to  get  that  feeling  she 
had  got  of  work  begun  and  then  —  for  some  reason  — 
not  finished. 

"  It's  a  shame  about  her  fruit,"  she  said,  and  walked 
toward  the  cupboard  that  the  county  attorney  had  opened, 
and  got  on  the  chair,  murmuring :  "  I  wonder  if  it's  all 
gone." 

It  was  a  sorry  enough  looking  sight,  but  "  Here's  one 
that's  all  right,"  she  said  at  last.  She  held  it  toward 
the  .light.  "  This  is  cherries,  too."  She  looked  again. 
"  I  declare  I  believe  that's  the  only  one." 

With  a  sigh,  she  got  down  from  the  chair,  went  to  the 
sink,  and  wiped  off  the  bottle. 

"  She'll  feel  awful  bad,  after  all  her  hard  work  in 
the  hot  weather.  I  remember  the  afternoon  1  put  up  my 
cherries  last  summer." 

She  set  the  bottle  on  the  table,  and,  with  another 
sigh,  started  to  sit  down  in  the  rocker.  But  she  did  not 
sit  down.  Something  kept  her  from  sitting  down  in  that 
chair.  She  straightened  —  stepped  back,  and,  half 
turned  away,  stood  looking  at  it,  seeing  the  woman  who 
had  sat  there  "  pleatin'  at  her  apron." 

The  thin  voice  of  the  sheriff's  wife  broke  in  upon  her: 
"  I  must  be  getting  those  things  from  the  front  room 
closet."  She  opened  the  door  into  the  other  room,  started 
in,  stepped  back.  "You  coming  with  me,  Mrs.  Hale?" 
she  asked  nervously.  "  You  —  you  could  help  me  get 
them." 

They  were  soon  back  —  the  stark  coldness  of  that  shut- 
up  room  was  not  a  thing  to  linger  in. 

"  My  I "  said  Mrs.  Peters,  dropping  the  things  on 
the  table  and  hurrying  to  the  stove. 

Mrs.  Hale  stood  examining  the  clothes  the  woman 
who  was  being  detained  in  town  had  said  she  wanted. 


268  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  Wright  was  close ! "  she  exclaimed,  holding  up  a 
shabby  black  skirt  that  bore  the  marks  of  much  making 
over.  "  I  think  maybe  that's  why  she  kept  so  much  to 
herself.  I  s'pose  she  felt  she  couldn't  do  her  part ;  and 
then,  you  don't  enjoy  things  when  you  feel  shabby. 
She  used  to  wear  pretty  clothes  and  be  lively  —  when 
she  was  Minnie  Foster,  one  of  the  town  girls,  singing 
in  the  choir.  But  that  —  oh,  that  was  twenty  years 
ago. 

With  a  carefulness  in  which  there  was  something 
tender,  she  folded  the  shabby  clothes  and  piled  them  at 
one  comer  of  the  table.  She  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Peters, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  other  woman's  look  that 
irritated  her. 

"  She  don't  care,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Much  dif- 
ference it  makes  to  her  whether  Minnie  Foster  had 
pretty  clothes  when  she  was  a  girl." 

Then  she  looked  again,  and  she  wasn't  so  sure ;  in 
fact,  she  hadn't  at  any  time  been  perfectly  sure  about 
Mrs.  Peters.  She  had  that  shrinking  manner,  and  yet 
her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  could  see  a  long  way  into 
things. 

"This  all  you  was  to  take  in?"  asked  Mrs.  Hale. 

"No,"  said  the  sheriff's  wife;  "she  said  she  wanted 
an  apron.  Funny  thing  to  want,"  she  ventured  in  her 
nervous  little  way,  "  for  there's  not  much  to  get  you 
dirty  in  jail,  goodness  knows.  But  I  suppose  just  to 
make  her  feel  more  natural.  If  you're  used  to  wearing 
an  apron — .  She  said  they  were  in  the  bottom  drawer 
of  this  cupboard.  Yes  —  here  they  are.  And  then  her 
little  shawl  that  always  hung  on  the  stair  door." 

She  took  the  small  gray  shawl  from  behind  the  door 
leading  upstairs,  and  stood  a  minute  looking  at  it. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Hale  took  a  quick  step  toward  the 
other  woman. 

"  Mrs.  Peters !  " 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Hale?" 

"  Do  you  think  she  —  did  it? " 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  269 

A  frightened  look  blurred  the  other  thing  in  Mrs. 
Peters'  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  shrink  away  from  the  subject. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  she  did,"  affirmed  Mrs.  Hale 
stoutly.  "  Asking  for  an  apron,  and  her  little  shawl. 
Worryin'  about  her  fruit." 

"Mr.  Peters  says — ."  Footsteps  were  heard  in  the 
room  above;  she  stopped,  looked  up,  then  went  on  in  a 
lowered  voice :  "  Mr.  Peters  says  —  it  looks  bad  for 
her.  Mr.  Henderson  is  awful  sarcastic  in  a  speech,  and 
he's  going  to  make  fun  of  her  saying  she  didn't  —  wake 
up." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Hale  had  no  answer.  Then, 
"  Well,  I  guess  John  Wright  didn't  wake  up  —  when 
they  was  slippin'  that  rope  under  his  neck,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

"  No,  it's  strange,"  breathed  Mrs.  Peters.  "  They 
think  it  was  such  a  —  funny  way  to  kill  a  man." 

She  began  to  laugh ;  at  sound  of  the  laugh,  abruptly 
stopped. 

"  That's  just  what  Mr.  Hale  said,"  said  Mrs.  Hale, 
in  a  resolutely  natural  voice.  "  There  was  a  gun  in  the 
house.     He  says  that's  what  he  can't  understand." 

"  Mr.  Henderson  said,  coming  out,  that  what  was 
needed  for  the  case  was  a  motive.  Something  to  show 
anger  —  or  sudden  feeling." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  anger  around  here," 
said  Mrs.  Hale.     "  I  don't  — " 

She  stopped.  It  was  as  if  her  mind  tripped  on  some- 
thing. Her  eye  was  caught  by  a  dish-towel  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  kitchen  table.  Slowly  she  moved  toward  the 
table.  One  half  of  it  was  wiped  clean,  the  other  half 
messy.  Her  eyes  made  a  slow,  almost  unwilling  turn 
to  the  bucket  of  sugar  and  the  half  empty  bag  beside  it. 
Things  begun  —  and  not  finished. 

After  a  moment  she  stepped  back,  and  said,  in  that 
manner  of  releasing  herself: 


270  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  Wonder  how  they're  finding  things  upstairs  ?  I 
hope  she  had  it  a  Httle  more  red  up  up  there.  You 
know," —  she  paused,  and  feeUng  gathered, — "  it  seems 
kind  of  sneaking:  locking  her  up  in  town  and  coming 
out  here  to  get  her  own  house  to  turn  against  her !  " 

"  But,  Mrs.  Hale,"  said  the  sheriflf's  wife,  "  the  law  is 
the  law." 

"  I  s'pose  'tis,"  answered  Mrs.  Hale  shortly. 

She  turned  to  the  stove,  saying  something  about  that 
fire  not  being  much  to  brag  of.  She  worked  with  it  a 
minute,  and  when  she  straightened  up  she  said  aggres- 
sively : 

"  The  law  is  the  law  —  and  a  bad  stove  is  a  bad 
stove.  How'd  you  like  to  cook  on  this  ? " —  pointing 
with  the  poker  to  the  broken  lining.  She  opened  the 
oven  door  and  started  to  express  her  opinion  of  the  oven ; 
but  she  was  swept  into  her.  own  thoughts,  thinking  of 
what  it  would  mean,  year  after  year,  to  have  that  stove 
to  wrestle  with.  The  thought  of  Minnie  Foster  trying  to 
bake  in  that  oven  —  and  the  thought  of  her  never  going 
over  to  see  Minnie  Foster — . 

She  was  startled  by  hearing  Mrs.  Peters  say :  "  A 
person  gets  discouraged  —  and  loses  heart." 

The  sheriff's  wife  had  looked  from  the  stove  to  the 
sink  —  to  the  pail  of  water  which  had  been  carried  in 
from  outside.  The  two  women  stood  there  silent,  above 
them  the  footsteps  of  the  men  who  were  looking  for 
evidence  against  the  woman  who  had  worked  in  that 
kitchen.  That  look  of  seeing  into  things,  of  seeing 
through  a  thing  to  something  else,  was  in  the  eyes  of 
the  sheriff's  wife  now.  When  Mrs.  Hale  next  spoke  to 
her,  it  was  gently: 

"  Better  loosen  up  your  things,  Mrs.  Peters.  We'll 
not  feel  them  when  we  go  out." 

Mrs.  Peters  went  to  the  back  of  the  room  to  hang  up 
the  fur  tippet  she  was  wearing.  A  moment  later  .she 
exclaimed,  "  Why,  she  was  piecing  a  quilt,"  and  held  up 
a  large  sewing  basket  piled  high  with  quilt  pieces. 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  271 

Mrs.  Hale  spread  some  of  the  blocks  out  on  the  table. 

"  It's  log-cabin  pattern,"  she  said,  putting  several  of 
them  together.     "  Pretty,  isn't  it  ?  " 

They  were  so  engaged  with  the  quilt  that  they  did  not 
hear  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Just  as  the  stair  door 
opened  Mrs.  Hale  was  saying: 

"  Do  you  suppose  she  was  going  to  quilt  it  or  just 
knot  it?" 

The  sheriff  threw  up  his  hands. 

"  They  wonder  whether  she  was  going  to  quilt  it  or 
just  knot  it  1  " 

There  was  a  laugh  for  the  ways  of  women,  a  warming 
of  hands  over  the  stove,  and  then  the  county  attorney 
said  briskly: 

"  Well,  let's  go  right  out  to  the  barn  and  get  that 
cleared  up." 

"  I  don't  see  as  there's  anything  so  strange,"  Mrs. 
Hale  said  resentfully,  after  the  outside  door  had  closed 
on  the  three  men  — "  our  taking  up  our  time  with  little 
things  while  we're  waiting  for  them  to  get  the  evidence. 
I  don't  see  as  it's  anything  to  laugh  about." 

"  Of  course  they've  got  awful  important  things  on 
their  minds,"  said  the  sheriff's  wife  apologetically. 

They  returned  to  an  inspection  of  the  block  for  the 
quilt.  Mrs.  Hale  was  looking  at  the  fine,  even  sewing, 
and  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  the  woman  who  had 
done  that  sewing,  when  she  heard  the  sheriff's  wife  say, 
in  a  queer  tone: 

"  Why,  look  at  this  one." 

She  turned  to  take  the  block  held  out  to  her. 

"  The  sewing,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  in  a  troubled  way. 
"  All  the  rest  of  them  have  been  so  nice  and  even  — 
but  —  this  one.  Why,  it  looks  as  if  she  didn't  know 
what  she  was  about !  " 

Their  eyes  met  —  something  flashed  to  life,  passed 
between  them ;  then,  as  if  with  an  effort,  they  seemed  to 
pull  away  from  each  other.  A  moment  Mrs.  Hale  sat 
there,  her  hands  folded  over  that  sewing  which  was  so 


272  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

unlike  all  the  rest  of  the  sewing.  Then  she  had  pulled 
a  knot  and  drawn  the  threads. 

"  Oh,  what  are  you  doing,  Mrs.  Hale  ? "  asked  the 
sheriff's  wife,  startled. 

"  Just  pulling  out  a  stitch  or  two  that's  not  sewed 
very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  mildly. 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  touch  things,"  Mrs.  Peters 
said,  a  little  helplessly. 

"  ril  just  finish  up  this  end,"  answered  Mrs.  Hale, 
still  in  that  mild,  matter-of-fact  fashion. 

She  threaded  a  needle  and  started  to  replace  bad  sew- 
ing with  good.  For  a  little  while  she  sewed  in  silence. 
Then,  in  that  thin,  timid  voice,  she  heard : 

"Mrs.  Plale!" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Peters?" 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she  was  so  —  nervous  about?  " 

"  Oh,  /  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  as  if  dismissing 
a  thing  not  important  enough  to  spend  much  time  on. 
"I  don't  know  as  she  was  —  nervous.  I  sew  awful 
queer  sometimes  when  I'm  just  tired." 

She  cut  a  thread,  and  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye 
looked  up  at  Mrs.  Peters.  The  small,  lean  face  of  the 
sheriff's  wife  seemed  to  have  tightened  up.  Her  eyes 
had  that  look  of  peering  into  something  But  next  mo- 
ment she  moved,  and  said  in  her  thin,  indecisive  way: 

"  Well,  I  must  get  those  clothes  wrapped.  They  may 
be  through  sooner  than  we  think.  I  wonder  where  I 
could  find  a  piece  of  paper  —  and  string." 

"  In  that  cupboard,  maybe,"  suggested  Mrs.  Hale, 
after  a  glance  around. 

One  piece  of  the  crazy  sewing  remained  unripped. 
Mrs,  Peters'  back  turned,  Martha  Hale  now  scrutinized 
that  piece,  compared  it  with  the  dainty,  accurate  sewing 
of  the  other  blocks.  The  difference  was  startling. 
Holding  this  block  made  her  feel  queer,  as  if  the  dis- 
tracted thoughts  of  the  woman  who  had  perhaps  turned 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  273 

to  it  to  try  and  quiet  herself  were  communicating  them- 
selves to  her. 

Mrs.  Peters'  voice  roused  her. 

"  Here's  a  bird-cage,"  she  said.  "  Did  she  have  a 
bird,  Mrs.  Hale?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  whether  she  did  or  not."  She 
turned  to  look  at  the  cage  Mrs.  Peter  was  holding  up. 
"  I've  not  been  here  in  so  long."  She  sighed.  "  There 
was  a  man  round  last  year  selling  canaries  cheap  — 
but  I  don't  know  as  she  took  one.  Maybe  she  did.  She 
used  to  sing  real  pretty  herself." 

Mrs.  Peters  looked  around  the  kitchen. 

"  Seems  kind  of  funny  to  think  of  a  bird  here."  She 
half  laughed  —  an  attempt  to  put  up  a  barrier.  "But 
she  must  have  had  one  —  or  why  would  she  have  a 
cage?     I  wonder  what  happened  to  it." 

"  I  suppose  maybe  the  cat  got  it,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Hale,  resuming  her  sewing. 

"  No ;  she  didn't  have  a  cat.  She's  got  that  feeling 
some  people  have  about  cats  —  being  afraid  of  them. 
When  they  brought  her  to  our  house  yesterday,  my  cat 
got  in  the  room,  and  she  was  real  upset  and  asked  me 
to  take  it  out." 

"  My  sister  Bessie  was  like  that,"  laughed  Mrs.  Hale. 

The  sheriff's  wife  did  not  reply.  The  silence  made 
Mrs.  Hale  turn  round.  Mrs.  Peters  was  examining  the 
bird-cage. 

"  Look  at  this  door,"  she  said  slowly.  "  It's  broke. 
One  hinge  has  been  pulled  apart." 

Mrs.  Hale  came  nearer. 

"  Looks  as  if  some  one  must  have  been  —  rough  with 
it." 

Again  their  eyes  met  —  startled,  questioning,  appre- 
hensive. For  a  moment  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 
Then  Mrs.  Hale,  turning  away,  said  brusquely : 

"If  they're  going  to  find  any  evidence,  I  wish  they'd 
be  about  it.     I  don't  like  this  place." 


274  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  But  I'm  awful  glad  you  came  with  me,  Mrs.  Hale." 
Mrs.  Peters  put  the  bird-cage  on  the  table  and  sat  down. 
"  It  would  be  lonesome  for  me  —  sitting  here  alone." 

"Yes,  it  would,  wouldn't  it?"  agreed  Mrs.  Hale,  a 
certain  determined  naturalness  in  her  voice.  She  had 
picked  up  the  sewing,  but  now  it  dropped  in  her  lap,  and 
she  murmured  in  a  different  voice:  "But  I  tell  you 
what  I  do  wish,  Mrs.  Peters.  I  wish  I  had  come  over 
sometimes  when  she  was  here.     I  wish  —  I  had." 

"  But  of  course  you  were  awful  busy,  Mrs.  Hale. 
Your  house  —  and  your  children." 

"  I  could've  come,"  retorted  Mrs.  Hale  shortly.  "  I 
stayed  away  because  it  weren't  cheerful  —  and  that's 
why  I  ought  to  have  come.  I  " —  she  looked  around  — 
"  I've  never  liked  this  place.  Maybe  because  it's  down 
in  a  hollow  and  you  don't  see  the  road.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  but  it's  a  lonesome  place,  and  always  was. 
I  wish  I  had  come  over  to  see  Minnie  Foster  sometimes. 
I  can  see  now  — "     She  did  not  put  it  into  words. 

"Well,  you  mustn't  reproach  yourself,",  counseled 
Mrs.  Peters.  "  Somehow,  we  just  don't  see  how  it  is 
with  other  folks  till  —  something  comes  up." 

"  Not  having  children  makes  less  work,"  mused  Mrs. 
Hale,  after  a  silence,  "  but  it  makes  a  quiet  house  —  and 
Wright  out  to  work  all  day  —  and  no  company  when  he 
did  come  in.  Did  you  know  John  Wright,  Mrs. 
Peters?" 

"  Not  to  know  him.  I've  seen  him  in  town.  They 
say  he  was  a  good  man." 

"  Yes  —  good,"  conceded  John  Wright's  neighbor 
grimly.  "-He  didn't  drink,  and  kept  his  word  as  well  as 
most,  I  guess,  and  paid  his  debts.  But  he  was  a  hard 
man,  Mrs.  Peters.  Just  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
him  — ."  She  stopped,  shivered  a  little.  "  Like  a  raw 
wind  that  gets  to  the  bone."  Her  eye  fell  upon  the 
cage  on  the  table  before  her,  and  she  added,  almost  bit- 
terly :     "  I  should  think  she  would've  wanted  a  bird ! " 

Suddenly  she  leaned  forward,  looking  intently  at  the 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  275 

cage.     "  But  what  do  you  s'pose  went  wrong  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mrs.  Peters ;  "  unless  it  got 
sick  and  died." 

But  after  she  said  it  she  reached  over  and  swung  the 
broken  door.  Both  women  watched  it  as  if  somehow 
held  by  it. 

"You  didn't  know  —  her?"  Mrs.  Hale  asked,  a 
gentler  note  in  her  voice. 

"  Not  till  they  brought  her  yesterday,"  said  the  sher- 
iff's wife. 

"  She  —  come  to  think  of  it,  she  was  kind  of  like  a 
bird  herself.  Real  sweet  and  pretty,  but  kind  of  timid 
and  —  fluttery.     How  —  she  —  did  —  change." 

That  held  her  for  a  long  time.  Finally,  as  if  struck 
with  a  happy  thought  and  relieved  to  get  back  to  every- 
day things,  she  exclaimed : 

"  Tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Peters,  why  don't  you  take  the 
quilt  in  with  you?     It  might  take  up  her  mind." 

"  Why,  I  think  that's  a  real  nice  idea,  Mrs.  Hale," 
agreed  the  sheriff's  wife,  as  if  she  too  were  glad  to 
come  into  the  atmosphere  of  a  simple  kindness.  "  There 
couldn't  possibly  be  any  objection  to  that,  could  there.'' 
Now,  just  what  will  I  take?  I  wonder  if  her  patches 
are  in  here  —  and  her  things." 

They  turned  to  the  sewing  basket. 

"  Here's  some  red,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  bringing  out  a 
roll  of  cloth.  Underneath  that  was  a  box.  *'  Here, 
maybe  her  scissors  are  in  here  —  and  her  things."  She 
held  it  up.  "  What  a  pretty  box !  Fll  warrant  that  was 
something  she  had  a  long  time  ago  —  when  she  was  a 
girl." 

She  held  it  in  her  hand  a  moment ;  then,  with  a  little 
sigh,  opened  it. 

Instantly  her  hand  went  to  her  nose. 

"Why  —  !" 

Mrs.  Peters  drew  nearer  —  then  turned  away. 

"  There's  something  wrapped  up  in  this  piece  of  silk," 
faltered  Mrs.  Hale. 


276  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  This  isn't  her  scissors,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  in  a  shrink- 
ing voice. 

Her  hand  not  steady,  Mrs.  Hale  raised  the  piece  of 
silk.     "  Oh,  Mrs.  Peters  1 "  she  cried.     "  It's  — " 

Mrs.  Peters  bent  closer. 

"  It's  the  bird,"  she  whispered. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Peters !  "  cried  Mrs.  Hale.  "  Look  at  it ! 
Its  neck  —  look  at  its  neck  !     It's  all  —  other  side  to." 

She  held  the  box  away  from  her. 

The  sheriff's  wife  again  bent  closer. 

"  Somebody  wrung  its  neck,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  that 
was  slow  and  deep. 

And  then  again  the  eyes  of  the  two  women  met  — 
this  time  clung  together  in  a  look  of  dawning  compre- 
hension, of  growing  horror.  Mrs.  Peters  looked  from 
the  dead  bird  to  the  broken  door  of  the  cage.  Again 
their  eyes  met.  And  just  then  there  was  a  sound  at  the 
outside  door. 

Mrs.  Hale  slipped  the  box  under  the  quilt  pieces  in 
the  basket,  and  sank  into  the  chair  before  it.  Mrs. 
Peters  stood  holding  to  the  table.  The  county  attor- 
ney and  the  sheriff  came  in  from  outside. 

"  Well,  ladies,"  said  the  county  attorney,  as  one  turn- 
ing from  serious  things  to  little  pleasantries,  "  have  you 
decided  whether  she  was  going  to  quilt  it  or  knot  it?" 

"  We  think,"  began  the  sheriff's  wife  in  a  flurried 
voice,  "  that  she  was  going  to  —  knot  it." 

He  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  the  change  that  came 
in  her  voice  on  that  last. 

"  Well,  that's  very  interesting,  I'm  sure,"  he  said  tol- 
erantly. He  caught  sight  of  the  bird-cage.  "  Has  the 
bird  flown  ?  " 

"  We  think  the  cat.  got  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  in  a  voice 
curiously  even. 

He  was  walking  up  and  down,  as  if  thinking  some- 
thing out. 

"  Is  there  a  cat  ?  "  he  asked  absently. 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  277 

Mrs.  Hale  shot  a  look  up  at  the  sheriff's  wife. 

"  Well,  not  now,"  said  Mrs.  Peters.  "  They're  super- 
stitious, you  know ;  they  leave." 

She  sank  into  her  chair. 

The  county  attorney  did  not  heed  her.  "  No  sign  at 
all  of  any  one  having  come  in  from  the  outside,"  he 
said  to  Peters,  in  the  manner  of  continuing  an  inter- 
rupted conversation.  "  Their  own  rope.  Now  let's  go 
upstairs  again  and  go  over  it,  piece  by  piece.  It  would 
have  to  have  been  some  one  who  knew  just  the — " 

The  stair  door  closed  behind  them  and  their  voices 
were  lost. 

The  two  women  sat  motionless,  not  looking  at  each 
other,  but  as  if  peering  into  something  and  at  the  same 
time  holding  back.  When  they  spoke  now  it  was  as  if 
they  were  afraid  of  what  they  were  saying,  but  as  if  they 
could  not  help  saying  it. 

"  She  liked  the  bird,"  said  Martha  Hale,  low  and 
slowly.     "  She  was  going  to  bury  it  in  that  pretty  box." 

"  When  I  was  a  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  under  her 
breath,  "  my  kitten  —  there  was  a  boy  took  a  hatchet, 
and  before  my  eyes  —  before  I  could  get  there — "  She 
covered  her  face  an  instant.  "  H  they  hadn't  held  me 
back  I  would  have  " —  she  caught  herself,  looked  up- 
stairs where  footsteps  were  heard,  and  finished  weakly 
— "  hurt  him." 

Then  they  sat  without  speaking  or  moving. 

"  I  wonder  how  it  would  seem,"  Mrs.  Hale  at  last 
began,  as  if  feeling  her  way  over  strange  ground  — 
"never  to  have  had  any  children  around?"  Her  eyes 
made  a  slow  sweep  of  the  kitchen,  as  if  seeing  what 
that  kitchen  had  meant  through  all  the  years.  "  No, 
Wright  wouldn't  like  the  bird,"  she  said  after  that  — 
"  a  thing  that  sang.  She  used  to  sing.  He  killed  that 
too."     lier  voice  tightened. 

Mrs.  Peters  moved  uneasily. 

"  Of  course  we  don't  know  who  killed  the  bird." 


278  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

"  I  knew  John  Wright,"  was  Mrs.  Hale's  answer. 

"  It  was  an  awful  thing  was  done  in  this  house  that 
night,  Mrs.  Hale,"  said  the  sheriff's  wife.  "  Killing  a 
man  while  he  slept  —  slipping  a  thing  round  his  neck 
that  choked  the  life  out  of  him." 

Mrs.  Hale's  hand  went  out  to  the  bird-cage. 

"  His  neck.     Choked  the  hfe  out  of  him." 

"  We  don't  know  who  killed  him,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Peters  wildly.     "  We  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Hale  had  not  moved.  "If  there  had  been  years 
and  years  of  —  nothing,  then  a  bird  to  sing  to  you,  it 
would  be  awful  —  still  —  after  the  bird  was  still." 

It  was  as  if  something  within  her  not  herself  had 
spoken,  and  it  found  in  Mrs.  Peters  something  she  did 
not  know  as  herself. 

"  I  know  what  stillness  is,"  she  said,  in  a  queer, 
monotonous  voice.  "  When  we  homesteaded  in  Dakota, 
and  my  first  baby  died  —  after  he  was  two  years  old  — 
and  me  with  no  other  then  — " 

Mrs.  Hale  stirred. 

"  How  soon  do  you  suppose  they'll  be  through  looking 
for  the  evidence  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  stillness  is,"  repeated  Mrs.  Peters,  in 
just  that  same  way.  Then  she  too  pulled  back.  "  The 
law  has  got  to  punish  crime,  Mrs.  Hale,"  she  said  in 
her  tight  little  way. 

"  I  wish  you'd  seen  Minnie  Foster,"  was  the  answer, 
"  when  she  wore  a  white  dress  with  blue  ribbons,  and 
stood  up  there  in  the  choir  and  sang." 

The  picture  of  that  girl,  the  fact  that  she  had  lived 
neighbor  to  that  girl  for  twenty  years,  and  had  let  her 
die  for  lack  of  life,  was  suddenly  more  than  she  could 
bear. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  come  over  here  once  in  a  while !  " 
she  cried.  "  That  was  a  crime  1  That  was  a  crime ! 
Who's  going  to  punish  that?" 

"  We  mustn't  take  on,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  with  a 
frightened  look  toward  the  stairs. 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  2i;9 

"  I  might  'a'  known  she  needed  help !  I  tell  yon,  it's 
queer,  Mrs.  Peters.  We  live  close  together,  and  we  live 
far  apart.  We  all  go  through  the  same  things  —  it's 
all  just  a  different  kind  of  the  same  thing!     If  it  weren't 

—  why  do  you  and  I  understand f     Why  do  we  know  — 
what  we  know  this  minute  ?  " 

She  dashed  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  Then,  seeing 
the  jar  of  fruit  on  the  table,  she  reached  for  it  and 
choked  out: 

"  If  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  tell  her  her  fruit  was  gone! 
Tell  her  it  ain'^.     Tell  her  it's  all  right  —  all  of  it.     Here 

—  take  this  in  to  prove  it  to  her !     She  —  she  may  never 
know  whether  it  was  broke  or  not." 

She  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Peters  reached  out  for  the  bottle  of  fruit  as  if 
she  were  glad  to  take  it  —  as  if  touching  a  familiar 
thing,  having  something  to  do,  could  keep  her  from 
something  else.  She  got  up,  looked  about  for  some- 
thing to  wrap  the  fruit  in,  took  a  petticoat  from  the 
pile  of  clothes  she  had  brought  from  the  front 
room,  and  nervously  started  winding  that  round  the 
bottle. 

"  My ! "  she  began,  in  a  high,  false  voice,  *'  it's  a  good 
thing  the  men  couldn't  hear  us!  Getting  all  stirred  up 
over  a  little  thing  like  a  —  dead  canary."  She  hurried 
over  that.  "  As  if  that  could  have  anything  to  do  with  — 
with —     My,  wouldn't  they  laugh?" 

Footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs, 

"Maybe  they  would,"  muttered  Mrs.  Hale — "maybe 
they  wouldn't." 

"  No.  Peters,"  said  the  county  attorney  incisively ; 
"  it's  all  perfectly  clear,  except  the  reason  for  doing  it. 
But  you  know  juries  when  it  comes  to  women.  If  there 
was  some  definite  thing  —  something  to  show.  Some- 
thing to  make  a  story  about.  A  thing  that  would  con- 
nect up  with  this  clumsy  way  of  doing  it." 

In  a  covert  way  Mrs.  Hale  looked  at  Mrs.  Peters. 
Mrs.  Peters  was  looking  at  her.     Quickly  they  looked 


28o  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

away  from  each  other.  The  outer  door  opened  and  Mr. 
Hale  came  in. 

"  I've  got  the  team  round  now,"  he  said.  "  Pretty  cold 
out  there." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay  here  awhile  by  myself,"  the  county 
attorney  suddenly  announced.  "  You  can  send  Frank 
out  for  me,  can't  you  ?  "  he  asked  the  sheriff.  "  I  want 
to  go  over  everything.  I'm  not  satisfied  we  can't  do 
better." 

Again,  for  one  brief  moment,  the  two  women's  eyes 
found  one  another. 

The  sheriff  came  up  to  the  table. 

"  Did  you  want  to  see  what  Mrs.  Peters  was  going 
to  take  in?" 

The  county  attorney  picked  up  the  apron.  He 
laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  they're  not  very  dangerous  things  the 
ladies  have  picked  out." 

Mrs.  Hale's  hand  was  on  the  sewing  basket  in  which 
the  box  was  concealed.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  take 
her  hand  off  the  basket.  She  did  not  seem  able  to.  He 
picked  up  one  of  the  quilt  blocks  which  she  had  piled  on 
to  cover  the  box.  Her  eyes  felt  like  fire.  She  had  a 
feeling  that  if  he  took  up  the  basket  she  would  snatch  it 
from  him. 

But  he  did  not  take  it  up.  With  another  little  laugh, 
he  turned  away,  saying: 

"  No ;  Mrs.  Peters  doesn't  need  supervising.  For  that 
matter,  a  sheriff's  wife  is  married  to  the  law.  Ever 
think  of  it  that  way,  Mrs.  Peters  ?  " 

Mrs.  Peters  was  standing  beside  the  table.  Mrs.  Hale 
shot  a  look  up  at  her;  but  she  could  not  see  her  face. 
Mrs.  Peters  had  turned  away.  When  she  spoke,  her 
voice  was  muffled. 

"Not  —  just  that  way,"  she  said. 

"  Married  to  the  law !  "  chuckled  Mrs.  Peters'  husband. 
He  moved  toward  the  door  into  the  front  room,  and  said 
to  the  county  attorney : 


SUSAN  GLASPELL  281 

"  I  just  want  you  to  come  in  here  a  minute,  George. 
We  ought  to  take  a  look  at  these  windows." 

"  Oh  —  windows,"  said  the  county  attorney  scoffingly. 

"  We'll  be  right  out,  Mr.  Hale,"  said  the  sheriff  to  the 
farmer,  who  was  still  waiting  by  the  door. 

Hale  went  to  look  after  the  horses.  The  sheriff  fol- 
lowed the  county  attorney  into  the  other  room.  Again 
—  for  one  final  moment  —  the  two  women  were  alone  in 
that  kitchen. 

Martha  Hale  sprang  up,  her  hands  tight  together, 
looking  at  that  other  woman,  with  whom  it  rested.  At 
first  she  could  not  see  her  eyes,  for  the  sheriff's  wife 
had  not  turned  back  since  she  turned  away  at  that  sug- 
gestion of  being  married  to  the  law.  But  now  Mrs. 
Hale  made  her  turn  back.  Her  eyes  made  her  turn 
back.  Slowly,  unwillingly,  Mrs.  Peters  turned  her  head 
until  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  other  woman.  There 
was  a  moment  when  they  held  each  other  in  a  steady, 
burning  look  in  which  there  was  no  evasion  nor  flinching. 
Then  Martha  Hale's  eyes  pointed  the  way  to  the  basket 
in  which  was  hidden  the  thing  that  would  make  certain 
the  conviction  of  the  other  woman  —  that  woman  who 
was  not  there  and  yet  who  had  been  there  with  them 
all  through  that  hour. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Peters  did  not  move.  And  then 
she  did  it.  With  a  rush  forward,  she  threw  back  the 
quilt  pieces,  got  the  box,  tried  to  put  it  in  her  hand- 
bag. It  was  too  big.  Desperately  she  opened  it, 
started  to  take  the  bird  out.  But  there  she  broke  — 
she  could  not  touch  the  bird.  She  stood  there  helpless, 
foolish. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  knob  turning  in  the  inner 
door.  Martha  Hale  snatched  the  box  from  the  sheriff's 
wife,  and  got  it  in  the  pocket  of  her  big  coat  just  as  the 
sheriff  and  the  county  attorney  came  back  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  Well,  Henry,"  said  the  county  attorney  facetiously, 
"  at  least  we  found  out  that  she  was  not  going  to  quilt 


282  A  JURY  OF  HER  PEERS 

it.     She  was  going  to  —  what  is  it  you  call  it,  ladies  ?  " 
Mrs.  Hale's  hand  was  against  the  pocket  of  her  coat 
"  We  call  it  —  knot  it,  Mr.  Henderson." 


THE  BUNKER  MOUSE ' 

By  FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE 

From  The  Century  Magazine 

LARRY  WALSH  slowly  climbed  the  stairs  of  a  house 
near  the  waterfront,  in  a  run-down  quarter  of  old 
New  York.  He  halted  on  the  top  floor,  blinking  in  the 
dim  light  that  struggled  through  the  grime-coated  win- 
dow of  the  hallway.  After  a  time  he  knocked  timidly  on 
the  door  before  him. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  pleasant  "  Come  in "  to 
alarm  the  small  man ;  he  started  to  retreat,  but  stopped 
when  the  door  was  thrown  wide. 

"  Then  it's  yourself,  Mouse !  It's  good  for  the  eyes 
just  to  look  at  you." 

The  woman  who  greeted  Walsh  was  in  striking  con- 
trast to  her  shabby  surroundings.  Everything  about  the 
old-fashioned  house,  one  floor  of  which  was  her  home, 
spoke  of  neglected  age.  This  girl,  from  the  heavy,  black 
braids  encircling  her  head  to  the  soles  of  her  shoes, 
vibrated  youth.  Her  cheeks  glowed  with  the  color  of 
splendid  health ;  her  blue  Irish  eyes  were  bright  with 
it.  Friendliness  had  rung  in  the  tones  of  her  rich 
brogue,  and  showed  now  in  her  smile  as  she  waited  for 
her  visitor  to  answer. 

Larry  stood  before  her  too  shy  to  speak. 

"  Is  it  word  from  Dan  you're  bringin'  me  ? "  she  en- 
couraged. "  But  there,  now,  I'm  forgettin'  me  manners! 
Come  in,  an'  I'll  be  makin'  you  a  cup  of  tea."     She  took 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Century  Company.  Copyright,  1918,  by 
Frederick  Stuart  Greene. 

283 


284  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

his  arm  impulsively,  with  the  frank  comradeship  of  a 
young  woman  for  a  man  much  older  than  herself,  and 
led  him  to  a  chair. 

Larry  sat  ready  for  flight,  his  cap  held  stiffly  across 
his  knees.  He  watched  every  movement  of  the  girl,  a 
look  of  pathetic  meekness  in  his  eyes. 

"  You're  right,  Mrs.  Sullivan,"  he  said  after  an  effort ; 
"  Dan  was  askin'  me  to  step  in  on  my  way  to  the  ship." 

She  turned  quickly  from  the  stove. 

"  You're  not  tellin'  me  now  Dan  ain't  comin'  himself, 
an'  the  boat  leavin'  this  night  ?  " 

Larry  was  plainly  uneasy. 

"Well,  you  see  —  it's  —  now  it's  just  like  I'm  tellin' 
you,  Mrs.  Sullivan;  he's  that  important  to  the  chief,  is 
Dan,  they  can't  get  on  without  him  to-day  at  all." 

"  Then  bad  luck,  I  say,  to  the  chief !  Look  at  the 
grand  supper  I'm  after  fixin'  for  Dan !  " 

"  Oh,  Mary  —  Mrs.  Sullivan,  don't  be  speakin'  dis- 
respectful' of  the  chief,  an'  him  thinkin'  so  highly  of 
Dan !  " 

Mary's  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"  An'  why  wouldn't  he !  It's  not  every  day  he'll  find 
the  likes  of  Dan,  with  the  strong  arms  an'  the  great  legs 
of  him,  not  to  mention  his  grand  looks."  She  crossed  to 
Larry,  her  face  aglow.  "  Rest  easy  now  while  you  drink 
your  tea,"  she  urged  kindly,  "  an'  tell  me  what  the  chief 
be  wantin'  him  for." 

She  drew  her  chair  close  to  Larry,  but  the  small  man 
turned  shyly  from  her  searching  gaze. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mrs.—" 

"  Call  me  Mary.  It's  a  year  an'  more  now  since  the 
first  time  you  brought  Dan  home  to  me."  A  sudden 
smile  lighted  her  face.  "  Well  I  remember  how  fright- 
ened you  looked  when  first  you  set  eyes  on  me.  Was 
you  thinkin'  to  find  Dan's  wife  a  slip  of  a  girl  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  told  me  you  was  a  fine,  big  lass."  He 
looked  from  Mary  to  the  picture  of  an  older  woman  that 
hung  above  the  mantel.     "  That'll  be  your  mother,  I'm 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  285 

thinkin',"  Then,  with  abrupt  change,  "  When  did  you 
leave  the  old  country,  Mary  ?  " 

"  A  little  more'n  a  year  before  I  married  Dan.  But 
tell  me.  Mouse,  about  the  chief  wantin'  him." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Dan's  that  handy-like  •<— " 

"  That's  the  blessed  truth  you're  speakin',"  she  inter- 
rupted, her  face  lovely  with  its  flush  of  pride.  "  But 
tell  me  more,  that's  a  darlin'." 

Larry  thought  rapidly  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  Only  the  last  trip  I  was  hearin'  the  chief  say : 
*  Dan,'  says  he,  '  it's  not  long  now  you'll  be  swingin'  the 
shovel.     I'll  be  makin'  you  water-tender  soon.* " 

Mary  leaned  nearer,  and  caught  both  of  Larry's  hands 
in  hers. 

"  Them's  grand  words  you're  sayin' ;  they  fair  makes 
my  heart  jump,"  She  paused;  the  gladness  faded 
quickly  from  her  look.  "  Then  the  chief  don't  know 
Dan  sometimes  takes  a  drop  ?  " 

"Ain't  the  chief  Irish  himself?  Every  man  on  the 
boilers  takes  his  dram."  Her  wistful  eyes  spurred  him 
on.  "  Sure  's  I'm  sittin'  here,  Dan's  the  soberest  of  the 
lot." 

Mary  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  Good  reason  I  have  to  fear  the  drink ;  't  was  that 
spoiled  my  mother's  life." 

Larry  rose  quickly. 

"  Your  mother  never  drank !  " 

"  No ;  the  saints  preserve  us !  "  She  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise at  Larry's  startled  face.  "  It  was  my  father!  I 
don't  remember  only  what  mother  told  me ;  he  left  her 
one  night,  ravin'  drunk,  an'  never  come  .back." 

Larry  hastily  took  up  his  cap. 

"  I  must  be  goin'  back  to  'the  ship  now,"  he  said  ab- 
ruptly. "  An'  thank  you,  Mary,  for  the  tea."  He  hur- 
ried from  the  room. 

When  Larry  reached  the  ground  floor  he  heard  Mary's 
door  open  again. 

"  Can  I  be  troublin'  you.  Mouse,  to  take  something  to 


286  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

Dan?"  She  came  down  the  stairs,  carrying  a  dinner- 
pail.  "  I'd  thought  to  be  eatin'  this  supper  along  with 
him,"  Mary  said,  disappointment  in  her  tone.  She  fol- 
lowed Larry  to  the  outer  landing.  "  It's  the  true  word 
you  was  sayin',  he'll  be  makin'  Dan  water-tender  ?  " 

Larry  forced  himself  to  look  into  her  anxious  eyes. 

"  Sure;  it's  just  as  I  said,  Mary." 

"  Then  I'll  pray  this  night  to  the  Mother  of  God  for 
that  chief ;  for  soon  " —  Mary  hesitated ;  a  light  came 
to  her  face  that  lifted  the  girl  high  above  her  squalid 
surroundings  — "  the  extra  pay'U  be  comin'  handy  soon," 
she  ended,  her  voice  as  soft  as  a  Killarney  breeze. 

Larry,  as  he  looked  at  the  young  wife  standing  be- 
tween the  scarred  columns  of  the  old  doorwav,  was 
stirred  to  the  farthest  corner  of  his  heart. 

"  They  only  smile  like  that  to  the  angels,"  he  thought. 
Then  aloud :  "  Bad  cess  to  me !  I  was  f  orgettin'  en- 
tirely! Dan  said  to  leave  this  with  you."  He  pushed 
crumpled,  coal-soiled  money  into  her  hand,  and  fled  down 
the  steps. 

When  Larry  heard  the  door  close  creakily  behind  him, 
he  looked  back  to  where  Mary  had  stood,  his  eyes  blink- 
ing rapidly.  After  some  moments  he  walked  slowly  on 
toward  the  wharves.  In  the '  distance  before  him  the 
spars  and  funnels  of  ships  loomed  through  the  dusk,  their 
outlines  rapidly  fading  into  the  sky  beyond  —  a  late 
September  sky,  now  fast  turning  to  a  burned-out  sheet  of 
dull  gray. 

Larry  went  aboard  his  ship,  and,  going  to  the  fore- 
castle, peered  into  an  upper  bunk. 

"  Your  baby's  not  to  home,  Mouse,"  a  voice  jeered. 
"  I  saw  him  over  to  Flanagan's  awhile  ago." 

A  hopeless  look  crossed  Larry's  face. 

"  Give  me  a  hand  up  the  side,  like  a  good  lad,  Jim, 
when  I  come  aboard  again." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  little  man  was  making  his  way 
back  to  the  steamer,  every  step  of  his  journey  harassed 
by  derisive  shouts  as  he  dodged  between  the  lines  of  be- 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  287 

lated  trucks  that  jammed  West  Street  from  curb  to 
string-piece.  He  pushed  a  wheelbarrow  before  him,  his 
knees  bending  under  the  load  it  held.  Across  the  bar- 
row, legs  and  head  dangling  over  the  sides,  lay  an  un- 
conscious heap  that  when  sober  answered  to  the  name  of 
Dan  Sullivan. 

Larry  Walsh,  stoker  on  the  coastwise  freighter  San 
Gardo,  was  the  butt  of  the  ship ;  every  man  ot  the  crew 
imposed  on  his  good  nature.  He  was  one  of  those  per- 
sons "  just  fool  enough  to  do  what  he's  told  to  do." 
For  thirty  of  his  fifty  years  he  had  been  a  seaman,  and 
the  marks  of  a  sailor's  life  were  stamped  hard  on  his 
face.  His  weathered  cheeks  were  plowed  by  wrinkles 
that  stretched,  deep  furrowed,  from  his  red-gray  hair  to 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  From  under  scant  brows  he 
peered  out  on  the  world  with  near-sighted  eyes ;  but 
whenever  a  smile  broadened  his  wide  mouth,  his  eyes 
would  shine  with  a  kindly  light. 

Larry's  defective  sight  had  led  to  his  banishment  as  a 
sailor  from  the  decks.  During  a  storm  off  Hatteras  a 
stoker  had  fallen  and  died  on  the  boiler-room  plates. 

"  It  don't  take  no  eyes  at  all  to  see  clean  to  the  back 
of  a  Scotch  boiler,"  the  boatswain  had  told  the  chief 
engineer.  "  I  can  give  you  that  little  squint-eyed  feller." 
So,  at  the  age  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  Larry  left  the 
cool,  wind-swept  deck  to  take  up  work  new  to  him 
in  the  superheated,  gas-stifling  air  of  the  fire-room. 
Though  entered  on  the  ship's  papers  as  a  sailor,  he  had 
gone  without  complaint  down  the  straight  ladders  to  the 
very  bottom  of  the  hull.  Bidden  to  take  the  dead  stoker's 
place,  "  he  was  just  fool  enough  to  do  what  he  was  told 
to  do." 

Larry  was  made  the  coal-passer  of  that  watch,  and 
began  at  once  the  back-breaking  task  of  shoveling  fuel 
from  the  bunkers  to  the  floor  outside,  ready  for  the 
stokers  to  heave  into  the  boilers.  He  had  been  passing 
less  than  an  hour  during  his  first  watch  when  the  coal 


288  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

ran  short  in  the  lower  bunker.  He  speared  with  a  slice- 
bar  in  the  bunker  above.  The  fuel  rested  at  a  steeper 
angle  than  his  weak  eyes  could  see,  and  his  bar  dis- 
lodged a  wedged  lump;  an  instant  later  the  new  passer 
was  half  buried  under  a  heap  of  sliding  coal.  Bewil- 
dered, but  unhurt,  he  crawled  to  the  boiler-room,  shaking 
the  coal  from  his  back  and  shoulders.  Through  dust- 
filled  ears  he  heard  the  general  laugh  at  his  plight. 

"  Look  at  the  nigger  Irishman !  "  a  stoker  called. 

"  Irishman !  "  came  the  answer.  "  It's  no  man  at  all ; 
it's  a  mouse  you're  seein' —  a  bunker  mouse." 

From  that  moment  the  name  Larry  Walsh  was  for- 
gotten. 

The  San  Gardo  was  late  getting  away  that  night;  two 
bells  of  the  evening  watch  had  sounded  when  at  last  she 
backed  from  her  pier  into  the  North  River  and  began  the 
first  mile  of  her  trip  to  Galveston.  Though  she  showed 
a  full  six  inches  of  the  red  paint  below  her  water-line, 
the  loading  of  her  freight  had  caused  the  delay.  In  the 
hold  lay  many  parts  of  sawmill  machinery.  When  the 
last  of  this  clumsy  cargo  had  settled  to  its  allotted  place, 
there  was  left  an  unusual  void  of  empty  blackness  below 
the  deck  hatches. 

"  It's  up  to  you  now,  Matie,"  the  stevedore  had  said 
to  the  impatient  first  officer.  "  My  job's  done  right,  but 
she'll  roll  her  sticks  out  if  it's  rough  outside." 

"  That's  nice ;  hand  me  all  the  cheerful  news  you  have 
when  you  know  they  hung  out  storm-warnings  at  noon," 
the  officer  had  growled  as  the  stevedore  went  ashore. 

Signs  that  both  the  Government  and  the  stevedore  had 
predicted  correctly  began  to  show  as  soon  as  the  vessel 
cleared  the  Hook.  The  wind  was  blowing  half  a  gale 
from  the  southeast  and  had  already  kicked  up  a  trouble- 
some sea.  The  ship,  resenting  her  half -filled  hold, 
pitched  with  a  viciousness  new  to  the  crew. 

There  was  unusual  activity  on  board  the  San  Gardo 
that  night.     Long  after  the  last  hatch-cover  had  been 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  289 

placed,  the  boatswain  continued  to  inspect,  going  over 
the  deck  from  bow  to  stern  to  see  that  every  movable 
thing  was  lashed  fast. 

In  the  engine-room  as  well,  extra  precautions  were 
taken.  It  was  Robert  Neville's  watch  below ;  he  was  the 
first  of  the  three  assistant  engineers.  Neville,  a  young 
man,  was  unique  in  that  most  undemocratic  institution,  a 
ship's  crew,  for  he  apparently  considered  the  stokers  un- 
der him  as  human  beings.  For  one  of  his  fire-room  force 
he  had  an  actual  liking. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  that  fellow  they  call  Bunker  Mouse 
in  your  watch?"  the  chief  once  asked. 

"  Because  he's  willing  and  the  handiest  man  I  have," 
Neville  answered  promptly. 

"  Well,  suit  yourself ;  but  that  brute  Sullivan  will  kill 
him  some  day,  I  hear." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Chief.     The  Mouse  is  game." 

"  So's  a  trout ;  but  it's  got  a  damn  poor  show  against 
a  shark,"  the  chief  had  added  with  a  shrug. 

Neville's  watch  went  on  duty  shortly  after  the  twin 
lights  above  Sandy  Hook  had  dropped  astern.  The  ship 
was  then  rolling  heavily  enough  to  make  walking  diffi- 
cult on  the  oily  floor  of  the  engine-room ;  in  the  boiler- 
room,  lower  by  three  feet,  to  stand  steady  even  for  a 
moment  was  impossible.  Here,  in  this  badly  lighted 
quarter  of  the  ship,  ill  humor  hung  in  the  air  thicker 
than  the  coal-gas. 

Dan  Sullivan,  partly  sobered,  fired  his  boiler,  showing 
ugly  readiness  for  a  fight.  Larry,  stoking  next  to  him, 
kept  a  weather-eye  constantly  on  his  fellow-laborer. 

Neville's  men  had  been  on  duty  only  a  few  minutes 
when  the  engineer  came  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and 
called  Larry. 

"  That's  right,"  Dan  growled ;  "  run  along,  you  en- 
gineer's pet,  leavin'  your  work  for  me  to  do !  " 

Larry  gave  him  no  answer  as  he  hurried  away. 

"  Make  fast  any  loose  thing  you  see  here,"  Neville 
ordered. 


290  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

Larry  went  about  the  machinery-crowded  room  secur- 
ing every  object  that  a  lurching  ship  might  send  flying 
from  its  place.  When  he  returned  to  the  fire-room  he 
heard  the  water-tender  shouting: 

"  Sullivan,  you're  loafin'  on  your  job !  Get  more  fire 
under  that  boiler !  " 

"  An'  ain't  I  doin'  double  work,  with  that  damn  Mouse 
forever  sneakin'  up  to  the  engine-room  ?  " 

Larry,  giving  no  sign  that  he  had  heard  Dan's  growling 
answer,  drove  his  scoop  into  the  coal,  and  with  a  swing- 
ing thrust  spread  its  heaped  load  evenly  over  the  glowing 
bed  in  the  fire-box.  He  closed  the  fire-door  with  a  quick 
slam,  for  in  a  pitching  boiler-room  burning  coal  can  fall 
from  an  open  furnace  as  suddenly  as  new  coal  can  be 
thrown  into  it. 

"  So,  you're  back,"  Dan  sneered.  "  It's  a  wonder  you 
wouldn't  stay  the  watch  up  there  with  your  betters." 

Larry  went  silently  on  with  his  work. 

"  Soft,  ain't  it,  you  jellyfish,  havin'  me  do  your  job? 
You  eel,  you — ."  Dan  poured  out  a  stream  of  abusive 
oaths. 

Still  Larry  did  not  answer. 

"  Dan's  ravin'  ma'd,"  a  man  on  the  port  boilers  said. 
"  Will  he  soak  the  Mouse  to-night,  I  wonder." 

"  Sure,"  the  stoker  beside  him  answered.  "  An'  it's  a 
dirty  shame  for  a  big  devil  like  him  to  smash  the  little 
un." 

"  You're  new  on  this  ship ;  you  don't  know  'em.  The 
Mouse  is  a  regular  mother  to  that  booze-fighter,  an'  small 
thanks  he  gets.  But  wait,  an'  you'll  see  somethin'  in  a 
minute." 

Dan's  temper,  however,  was  not  yet  at  fighting  heat. 
He  glared  a  moment  longer  at  Larry,  then  turned  sullenly 
to  his  boiler.  He  was  none  too  steady  on  his  legs,  and 
this,  with  the  lurching  of  the  ship,  made  his  work  ragged. 
After  a  few  slipshod  passes  he  struck  the  door-frame 
squarely  with  his  scoop,  spilling  the  coal  to  the  floor. 

"  Damn  your  squint  eyes !  "  he  yelled.     "  You  done 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE     291 

that,  Mouse !  You  shoved  ag'in'  me.  Now  scrape  it  all 
up,  an'  be  quick  about  it !  " 

Without  a  word,  while  his  tormentor  jeered  and  cursed 
him,  Larry  did  as  he  was  told. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  fight  at  all  in  your  shriveled-up 
body  ?  "  Dan  taunted  as  Larry  finished.  "  You're  a  dis- 
grace to  Ireland,  that's  what  you  are." 

Larry,  still  patient,  turned  away.  Dan  sprang  to  him 
and  spun  the  little  man  about. 

"  Where's  the  tongue  in  your  ugly  mouth  ?  "  Dan  was 
shaking  with  rage.  "  I'll  not  be  havin'  the  likes  of  you 
followin'  me  from  ship  to  ship,  an'  sniffin'  at  my  heels 
ashore.  I  won't  stand  for  it  no  longer,  do  you  hear? 
Do  you  think  I  need  a  nurse?  Now  say  you'll  leave 
this  ship  when  we  makes  port,  or  I'll  break  every  bone 
in  you." 

Dan  towered  above  Larry,  his  arm  drawn  back  ready 
to  strike.  Every  man  in  the  room  stopped  work  to 
watch  the  outcome  of  the  row. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  tirade  Larry's  thin  shoulders 
had  straightened;  he  raised  his  head;  his  lower  jaw,  un- 
dershot, was  set  hard.  The  light  from  the  boiler  showed 
his  near-sighted  eyes  steady  on  Sullivan,  unafraid. 

"  Get  on  with  your  work,  an'  don't  be  a  fool,  Dan," 
he  said  quietly.  ♦ 

"A  fool,  am  I!" 

Dan's  knotted  fist  flashed  to  within  an  inch  of  Larry's 
jaw.  The  Bunker  Mouse  did  not  flinch.  For  a  moment 
the  big  stoker's  arm  quivered  to  strike,  then  slowly  fell. 

'*  You  ain't  worth  smashin',"  Sullivan  snarled,  and 
turned  away. 

"  Well,  what  d'  yer  know  about  that ! "  the  new  stoker 
cried. 

"  It's  that  way  all  the  time,"  he  was  answered ;  "  there 
ain't  a  trip  Dan  don't  ball  the  Mouse  out  to  a  fare-you- 
well ;  but  he  never  lays  hand  to  'im.  None  of  us  knows 
why." 

"  You  don't  ?    Well,  I  do.     The  big  slob's  yeller,  an' 


292  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

I'll  show  'im  up."  The  stoker  crossed  to  Sullivan. 
"  See  here,  Bo,  why  don't  you  take  on  a  man  your  size  ?  " 
He  thrust  his  face  close  to  Dan's  and  shouted  the  an- 
swer to  his  question :  "  I'll  tell  you  why.  You  ain't  got 
sand  enough." 

Dan's  teeth  snapped  closed,  then  parted  to  grin  at  his 
challenger. 

"  Do  you  think  you're  big  enough?"  The  joy  of  bat- 
tle was  in  his  growl. 

"Yes,  I  do."     The  man  put  up  his  hands. 

Instantly  Dan's  left  broke  down  the  guard ;  his  right 
fist  landed  squarely  on  the  stoker's  jaw,  sending  him 
reeling  to  the  bunker  wall,  where  he  fell.  It  was  a  clean 
knock-out. 

"  Go  douse  your  friend  with  a  pail  of  water,  Mouse." 
Dan,  still  grinning,  picked  up  his  shovel  and  went  to 
work. 

When  Neville's  watch  went  off  duty,  Larry  found  the 
sea  no  rougher  than  on  countless  other  runs  he  had  made 
along  the  Atlantic  coast.  The  wind  had  freshened  to  a 
strong  gale,  but  he  reached  the  forecastle  with  no  great 
difficulty. 

Without  marked  change  the  San  Gardo  carried  the 
same  heavy  weather  from  Barnegat  Light  to  the  Vir- 
ginia capes.  Beyond  Cape  Henry  the  blow  began  to 
stiffen  and  increased  every  hour  as  the  freighter  plowed 
steadily  southward.  Bucking  head  seas  every  mile  of 
the  way,  she  picked  up  Diamond  Shoals  four  hours  be- 
hind schedule.  As  she  plunged  past  the  tossing  light- 
ship, Larry,  squinting  through  a  forecastle  port,  won- 
dered how  long  its  anchor  chains  would  hold.  The  San 
Gardo  was  off  Jupiter  by  noon  the  third  day  out,  run- 
ning down  the  Florida  coast ;  the  wind-bent  palms  showed 
faintly  through  the  driving  spray. 

Neville's  watch  went  on  duty  that  night  at  eight.  As 
his  men  left  the  forecastle  a  driving  rain  beat  against 
their  backs,  and  seas  broke  over  the  port  bow  at  every 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE     293 

downward  plunge  of  the  ship.  To  gain  the  fire-room 
door,  they  clung  to  rail  or  stanchion  to  save  themselves 
from  being  swept  overboard.  They  held  on  desperately 
as  each  wave  flooded  the  deck,  watched  their  chance,  then 
sprang  for  the  next  support.  On  freighters  no  cargo 
space  is  wasted  below  decks  in  passageways  for  the  crew. 

When  Larry  reached  the  fire-room  there  was  not  a 
dry  inch  of  cloth  covering  his  wiry  body.  He  and  his 
fellow-stokers  took  up  immediately  the  work  of  the  men 
they  had  relieved,  and  during  the  first  hours  of  their 
watch  fired  the  boilers  with  no  more  difficulty  than  is 
usual  in  heavy  weather. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  speaking-tube  whistled,  and  a 
moment  later  Neville  came  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 

"What  are  you  carrying?"  he  shouted  to  the  water- 
tender.  "  We've  got  to  keep  a  full  head  of  steam  on  her 
to-night." 

"  We've  got  it,  Mr.  Neville  —  one  hundred  and  sixty, 
an'  we've  held  between  that  and  sixty-five  ever  since  I've 
been  on." 

"  The  captain  says  we've  made  Tortugas.  We  lost 
three  hours  on  the  run  from  Jupiter,"  Neville  answered, 
and  went  back  to  his  engine. 

During  the  next  hour  no  one  on  deck  had  to  tell  these 
men,  toiling  far  below  the  water-line,  that  wind  and  sea 
had  risen.  They  had  warnings  enough.  Within  their 
steel-incased  quarters  every  bolt  and  rivet  sounded  the 
overstrain  forced  upon  it.  In  the  engine-room  the  oiler 
could  no  longer  move  from  the  throttle.  Every  few 
minutes  now,  despite  his  watchfulness,  a  jarring  shiver 
spread  through  the  hull  as  the  propeller,  thrown  high, 
raced  wildly  in  mid-air  before  he  could  shut  off  steam. 

At  eleven-thirty  the  indicator  clanged,  and  its  arrow 
jumped  to  half-speed  ahead.  A  moment  later  the  men 
below  decks  "  felt  the  rudder  "  as  the  San  Gardo,  aban- 
doning further  attempts  to  hold  her  course,  swung  about 
to  meet  the  seas  head  on. 

Eight  bells  —  midnight  —  struck,  marking  the  end  of 


294  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

the  shift;  but  no  one  came  down  the  ladders  to  relieve 
Neville's  watch.  The  growls  of  the  tired  men  rose  above 
the  noise  in  the  fire-room.  Again  Neville  came  through 
the  passage. 

"  The  tube  to  the  bridge  is  out  of  commission,"  he 
called,  "  but  I  can  raise  the  chief.  He  says  no  man  can 
live  on  deck ;  one's  gone  overboard  already.  The  second 
watch  can't  get  out  of  the  forecastle.  It's  up  to  us, 
men,  to  keep  this  ship  afloat,  and  steam's  the  only  thing 
that'll  do  it." 

For  the  next  hour  and  the  next  the  fire-room  force 
and  the  two  men  in  the  engine-room  stuck  doggedly  to 
their  work.  They  knew  that- the  San  Gardo  was  making 
a  desperate  struggle,  that  it  was  touch  and  go  whether 
the  ship  would  live  out  the  hurricane  or  sink  to  the  bot- 
tom. They  knew  also,  to  the  last  man  of  them,  that 
if  for  a  moment  the  ship  fell  off  broadside  to  the  seas, 
the  giant  waves  would  roll  her  over  and  over  like  an 
empty  barrel  in  a  mill-race.  The  groaning  of  every  rib 
and  plate  in  the  hull,  the  crash  of  seas  against  the  sides, 
the  thunder  of  waves  breaking  on  deck,  drowned  the 
usual  noises  below. 

The  color  of  the  men's  courage  began  to  show.  Some 
kept  grimly  at  their  work,  dumb  from  fear.  Others 
covered  fright  with  profanity,  cursing  the  storm,  the 
ship,  their  mates,  cursing  themselves.  Larry,  as  he  threw 
coal  steadily  through  his  fire-doors,  hummed  a  broken 
tune.  He  gave  no  heed  to  Dan,  who  grew  more  savage 
as  the  slow  hours  of  overtoil  dragged  by. 

About  four  in  the  morning  Neville  called  Larry  to  the 
engine-room.     On  his  return  Dan  blazed  out  at  him : 

"  Boot-lickin'  Neville  ag'in,  was  you?  I'd  lay  you 
out,  you  shrimp,  only  I  want  you  to  do  your  work." 

Larry  took  up  his  shovel ;  as  usual  his  silence  enraged 
Sullivan. 

"  You  chicken-livered  wharf-rat,  ain't  you  got  no  spunk 
to  answer  wid?"  Dan  jerked  a  slice-bar  from  the  fire 
and  hurled  it  to  the  floor  at  Larry's  feet.     The  little  man 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  295 

leaped  in  the  air ;  the  white-hot  end  of  the  bar,  bounding 
from  the  floor,  missed  his  legs  by  an  inch. 

Larry's  jaw  shot  out;  he  turned  on  Sullivan,  all  meek- 
ness gone. 

"  Dan,"  he  cried  shrilly,  "  if  you  try  that  again  — " 

"  Great  God !  what's  that !  " 

Dan's  eyes  were  staring;  panic  showed  on  every  face 
in  the  room.  The  sound  of  an  explosion  had  come  from 
the  forward  hold.  Another  followed,  and  another,  a 
broadside  of  deafening  reports.  The  terrifying  sounds 
came  racing  aft.  They  reached  the  bulkhead  nearest 
them,  and  tore  through  the  fire-room,  bringing  unmasked 
fear  to  every  man  of  the  watch.  The  crew  stood  for  a 
moment  awed,  then  broke,  and,  rushing  for  the  ladder, 
fought  for  a  chance  to  escape  this  new,  unknown  madness 
of  the  storm. 

Only  Larry  kept  his  head. 

"  Stop !  Come  back !  "  His  shrill  voice  carried  above 
the  terrifying  noise.  "  It's  the  plates  bucklin'  between 
the  ribs." 

"  Plates !     Hell !  she's  breakin'  up !  " 

Neville  rushed  in  from  the  engine-room. 

"  Back  to  your  fires,  men,  or  we'll  all  drown !  Steam, 
keep  up — "  He  was  shouting  at  full-lung  power,  but 
his  cries  were  cut  short.  Again  the  deafening  reports 
started  at  the  bows.  Again,  crash  after  crash,  the  sounds 
came  tearing  aft  as  if  a  machine-gun  were  raking  the 
vessel  from  bow  to  stern.  At  any  time  these  noises 
would  bring  terror  to  men  locked  below  decks ;  but  now, 
in  the  half -filled  cargo  spaces,  each  crashing  report  was 
like  the  bursting  of  a  ten-inch  shell. 

Neville  went  among  the  watch,  urging,  commanding, 
assuring  them  that  these  sounds  meant  no  real  danger 
to  the  ship.  He  finally  ended  the  panic  by  beating  the 
more  frightened  ones  back  to  their  boilers. 

Then  for  hours,  at  every  plunge  of  the  ship,  the  deaf- 
ening boom  of  buckling  plates  continued  until  the  watch 
was  crazed  by  the  sound. 


296  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

This  new  terror  began  between  four  and  five  in  the 
morning,  when  the  men  had  served  double  time  under  the 
grueHng  strain.  At  sunrise  another  misery  was  added 
to  their  torture:  the  rain  increased  suddenly,  and  fell  a 
steady  cataract  to  the  decks.  This  deluge  and  the  flying 
spray  sent  gallons  of  water  down  the  stack ;  striking  the 
breeching-plates,  it  was  instantly  turned  to  steam  and 
boiling  water.  As  the  fagged  stokers  bent  before  the 
boilers,  the  hot  water,  dripping  from  the  breeching, 
washed  scalding  channels  through  the  coal-dust  down 
their  bare  backs.  They  hailed  this  new  torment  with 
louder  curses,  but  continued  to  endure  it  for  hours,  while 
outside  the  hurricane  raged,  no  end,  no  limit,  to  its 
power. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  watch  the  bilge-pumps  had 
had  all  they  could  do  to  handle  the  leakage  coming  from 
the  seams  of  the  strained  hull.  Twice  Neville  had  taken 
the  throttle  and  sent  his  oiler  to  clear  the  suctions.  The 
violent  lurching  of  the  ship  had  churned  up  every  ounce 
of  sediment  that  had  lain  undisturbed  beneath  the  floor- 
plates  since  the  vessel's  launching.  Sometime  between 
seven  and  eight  all  the  bilge-pumps  clogged  at  the  same 
moment,  and  the  water  began  rising  at  a  rate  that 
threatened  the  fires.  It  became  a  question  of  minutes 
between  life  and  death  for  all  hands.  Neville,  working 
frantically  ^to  clear  the  pumps,  yelled  to  the  oiler  to  leave 
the  throttle  and  come  to  him.  The  water,  gaining  fast, 
showed  him  that  their  combined  efforts  were  hopeless. 
He  ran  to  the  boiler-room  for  more  aid.  Here  the  water 
had  risen  almost  to  the  fires ;  as  the  ship  rolled,  it  slushed 
up  between  the  floor-plates  and  ran  in  oily  streams  about 
the  men's  feet.     Again  panic  seized  the  crew. 

"  Come  on,  lads !  "  Sullivan  shouted  above  the  infernal 
din.     "  We'll  be  drowned  in  this  hell-hole !  " 

In  the  next  second  he  was  half-way  up  the  ladder; 
below  him,  clinging  to  the  rungs  like  frightened  apes, 
hung  other  stokers. 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE     297 

"Come  back,  you  fool!"  Neville,  shouted.  "Open 
that  deck-door,  and  you'll  swamp  the  ship ! " 

Dan  continued  to  climb. 

"  Come  down  or  I'll  fire !  " 

"  Shoot  an'  be  damned  to  you ! "  Dan  called  back. 

The  report  of  Neville's  revolver  was  lost  in  the  noise ; 
but  the  bullet,  purposely  sent  high,  spattered  against  the 
steel  plate  above  Dan's  head.  He  looked  down.  Nev- 
ille, swaying  with  the  pitching  floor,  was  aiming  true  for 
his  second  shot.  Cursing  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  Dan 
scrambled  down  the  ladder,  pushing  the  men  below  him 
tq  the  floor. 

"  Back  to  your  boilers !  "  Neville  ordered ;  but  the 
stokers,  huddled  in  a  frightened  group,  refused  to  leave 
the  ladder. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  seconds  now  before  the  fires 
would  be  drenched.  Bilge-water  was  splashing  against 
the  under  boiler-plates,  filling  the  room  with  dense 
steam.  Neville  left  the  men  and  raced  for  the  engine- 
room.  He  found  Larry  and  the  oiler  working  desper- 
ately at  the  valve-wheel  of  the  circulating  pump.  Nev- 
ille grasped  the  wheel,  and  gave  the  best  he  had  to  open 
the  valve.  This  manifold,  connecting  the  pump  with 
the  bilges,  was  intended  only  for  emergency  use.  It 
had  not  been  opened  for  months,  and  was  now  rusted 
tight.  The  three  men,  straining  every  muscle,  failed  to 
budge  the  wheel.  After  the  third  hopeless  attempt, 
Larry  let  go,  and  without  a  word  bolted  through  the 
passage  to  the  fire-room. 

"You  miserable  quitter!"  Neville  screamed  after 
him,  and  bent  again  to  the  wheel. 

As  he  looked  up,  despairing  of  any  chance  to  loosen 
the  rusted  valve,  Larry  came  back  on  the  run,  carrying 
a  coal-pick  handle.  He  thrust  it  between  the  spokes  of 
the  wheel. 

"Now,  Mr.  Neville,  all  together!"  His  Celtic  jaw 
was  set  hard. 


298  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

All  three  threw  their  weight  against  the  handle.  The 
wheel  stirred. 

As  they  straightened  for  another  effort,  a  louder  noise 
of  hissing  steam  sounded  from  the  boilers,  and  the  fire- 
room  force,  mad  with  fright,  came  crowding  through 
the  passage  to  the  higher  floor  of  the  engine-room. 

"  Quick !     Together !  "  Neville  gasped. 

The  wheel  moved  an  inch. 

"  Once  more !     Now! " 

The  wheel  turned  and  did  not  stop.  The  three  men 
dropped  the  lever,  seized  the  wheel,  and  threw  the  valve 
wide  open. 

"  Good  work,  men ! "  Neville  tried,  and  fell  back  ex- 
hausted. 

The  centrifugal  pump  was  thrown  in  at  the  last  des- 
perate moment.  When  the  rusted  valve  finally  opened, 
water  had  risen  to  the  lower  grate-bars  under  every 
boiler  in  the  fire-room.  But  once  in  action,  the  twelve- 
inch  suction  of  the  giant  pump  did  its  work  with  magic 
swiftness.  In  less  than  thirty  seconds  the  last  gallon  of 
water  in  the  bilges  had  been  lifted  and  sent,  rushing 
through  the  discharge,  overboard. 

Neville  faced  the  boiler-room  crew  sternly. 

"  Now,  you  cowards,  get  to  your  fires !  "  he  said. 

As  the  men  slunk  back  through  the  passage  Dan 
growled : 

"  May  that  man  some  day  burn  in  hell !  " 

"  Don't  be  wishin'  him  no  such  luck,"  an  angry  voice 
answered ;  "  wish  him  down  here  wid  us." 

The  morning  dragged  past;  noon  came,  marking  the 
sixteenth  hour  that  the  men,  imprisoned  below  the  sea- 
swept  decks,  had  struggled  to  save  the  ship.  Sundown 
followed,  and  the  second  night  of  their  unbroken  toil 
began.  They  stuck  to  it,  stood  up  somehow  under  the 
racking  grind,  their  nerves  quivering,  their  bodies  crav- 
ing food,  their  eyes  gritty  from  the  urge  of  sleep,  while 
always  the  hideous  noises  of  the  gale  screamed  in  their 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  299 

ears.  The  machine-gun  roar  of  buckling  plates,  raking 
the  battered  hull,  never  ceased. 

With  each  crawling  minute  the  men  grew  more  silent, 
more  desperate.  Dan  Sullivan  let  no  chance  pass  to  vent 
his  spleen  on  Larry.  Twice  during  the  day  his  fellow- 
stokers,  watching  the  familiar  scene,  saw  the  big  man 
reach  the  point  of  crushing  the  small  one ;  but  the  ever- 
expected  blow  did  not  fall. 

Shortly  after  midnight  the  first  hope  came  to  the 
exhausted  men  that  their  fight  might  not  be  in  vain. 
Though  the  buckling  plates  still  thundered,  though  the 
floor  under  their  feet  still  pitched  at  crazy  angles,  there 
was  a  "  feel  "  in  the  fire-room  that  ribs  and  beams  and 
rivets  were  not  so  near  the  breaking-point. 

Neville  came  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 

"  The  hurricane's  blowing  itself  to  death,"  he  shouted. 
"  Stick  to  it,  boys,  for  an  hour  longer ;  the  second  watch 
can  reach  us  by  then." 

The  hour  passed,  but  no  relief  came.  The  wind  had 
lost  some  force,  but  the  seas  still  broke  over  the  bows, 
pouring  tons  of  water  to  the  deck.  The  vessel  pitched 
as  high,  rolled  as  deep,  as  before. 

As  the  men  fired  their  boilers  they  rested  the  filled 
scoops  on  the  floor  and  waited  for  the  ship  to  roll  down. 
Then  a  quick  jerk  of  the  fire-door  chain,  a  quick  heave 
of  the  shovel,  and  the  door  was  snapped  shut  before  the 
floor  rolled  up  again.  Making  one  of  these  hurried 
passes,  Larry  swayed  on  tired  legs.  He  managed  the 
toss  and  was  able  to  close  the  door  before  he  fell  hard 
against  Dan.  His  sullen  enemy  instantly  launched  a 
new  tirade,  fiercer,  more  blasphemous,  than  any  before. 
He  ended  a  stream  of  oaths,  and  rested  the  scoop  ready 
for  his  throw. 

"  I'll  learn  yuh,  yuh  snivelin' — "  The  ship  rolled  deep. 
Dan  jerked  the  fire-door  open  — "  yuh  snivelin'  shrimp !  " 
He  glared  at  Larry  as  he  made  the  pass.  He  missed  the 
opening.  His  shovel  struck  hard  against  the  boiler 
front.     The  jar  knocked  Dan  to  the  floor,  pitched  that 


300  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

moment  at  its  steepest  angle.  He  clutched  desperately 
to  gain  a  hold  on  the  smooth-worn  steel  plates,  his  face 
distorted  by  fear  as  he  slid  down  to  the  fire. 

Larry,  crying  a  shrill  warning,  sprang  between  Sullivan 
and  the  open  furnace.  He  stooped,  and  with  all  the 
strength  he  could  gather  shoved  the  big  stoker  from 
danger.  Then  above  the  crashing  sounds  a  shriek  tore 
the  steam-clouded  air  of  the  fire-room.  Larry  had 
fallen ! 

As  his  feet  struck  the  ash-door,  the  ship  rolled  up. 
A  cascade  falling  from  Dan's  fire  had  buried  Larry's 
legs  to  the  knees  under  a  bed  of  white-hot  coals.  He 
shrieked  again  the  cry  of  the  mortally  hurt  as  Dan 
dragged  him  too  late  from  before  the  open  door. 

"  Mouse !  Mouse !  "  Horror  throbbed  in  Sullivan's 
voice.  "  You're  hurted  bad !  "  He  knelt,  holding  Larry 
in  his  arms,   while  others  threw  water  on  the  blazing 

C03.1s 

"  Speak,  lad !  "  Dan  pleaded.     "  Speak  to  me !  " 

The  fire-room  force  stood  over  them  silenced.  Ac- 
cident, death  even,  they  always  expected ;  but  to  see  Dan 
Sullivan  show  pity  for  any  living  thing,  and  above  all, 
for  the  Bunker  Mouse  — 

The  lines  of  Larry's  tortured  face  eased. 

"  It's  the  last  hurt  I'll  be  havin',  Dan,"  he  said  before 
he  fainted. 

"  Don't  speak  the  word,  Mouse,  an'  you  just  after 
savin'  me  life !  "  Then  the  men  in  the  fire-room  saw 
a  miracle :  tears  filled  the  big  stoker's  eyes. 

Neville  had  heard  Larry's  cry  and  rushed  to  the  boiler- 
room, 

"  For  God's  sake !  what's  happened  now  ?  " 

Dan  pointed  a  shaking  finger.  Neville  looked  once 
at  what  only  a  moment  before  had  been  the  legs  and  feet 
of  a  man.  As  he  turned  quickly  from  the  sight  the  en- 
gineer's face  was  like  chalk. 

"  Here,  two  of  you,"  he  called  unsteadily,  "  carry  him 
to  the  engine-room." 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  301 

Dan  threw  the  men  roughly  aside, 

"  Leave  him  be,"  he  growled.  "  Don't  a  one  of  you 
put  hand  on  liim! "  He  lifted  Larry  gently  and,  careful 
of  each  step,  crossed  the  swaying  floor. 

"  Lay  him  there  by  the  dynamo,"  Neville  ordered 
when  they  had  reached  the  engine-room. 

Dan  hesitated. 

"  'T  ain't  fittin',  sir,  an'  him  so  bad'  hurt.  Let  me  be 
takin'  him  to  the  store-room." 

Neville  looked  doubtfully  up  the  narrow  stairs. 

"  We  can't  get  him  there  with  this  sea  running." 

Sullivan  spread  his  legs  wide,  took  both  of  Larry's 
wrists  in  one  hand,  and  swung  the  unconscious  man 
across  his  back.  He  strode  to  the  iron  stairs  and  began 
to  climb.  As  he  reached  the  first  grating  Larry  groaned. 
Dan  stopped  dead ;  near  him  the  great  cross-heads  were 
plunging  steadily  up  and  down. 

"  God,  Mr.  Neville,  did  he  hit  ag'in'  somethin'  ? " 
The  sweat  of  strain  and  fear  covered  his  face. 

The  vessel  leaped  to  the  crest  of  a  wave,  and  dropped 
sheer  into  the  trough  beyond. 

"  No ;  but  for  God's  sake,  man,  go  on !  You'll  pitch 
with  him  to  the  floor  if  she  does  that  again! " 

Dan,  clinging  to  the  rail  with  his  free  hand,  began 
climbing  the  second  flight. 

At  the  top  grating  Neville  sprang  past  him  to  the 
store-room  door. 

"  Hold  him  a  second  longer,"  he  called,  and  spread  an 
armful  of  cotton  waste  on  the  vise  bench. 

Dan  laid  Larry  on  the  bench.  He  straightened  his 
own  great  body  for  a  moment,  then  sat  down  on  the 
floor  and  cried. 

Neville,  pretending  not  to  see  Dan's  distress,  brought 
more  waste.  As  he  placed  it  beneath  his  head  Larry 
groaned.  Dan,  still  on  the  floor,  wrung  his  hands,  call- 
ing on  the  saints  and  the  Virgin  to  lighten  the  pain  of 
this  man  it  had  been  his  joy  to  torture. 

Neville  turned  to  him. 


302  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

"  Get  up  from  there !  "  he  cried  sharply.  "  Go  see 
what  you  can  find  to  help  him." 

Dan  left  the  room,  rubbing  his  red-flanneled  arm 
across  his  eyes.  He  returned  quickly  with  a  can  of 
cylinder  oil,  and  poured  it  slowly  over  the  horribly 
burned  limbs. 

"  There  ain't  no  bandages,  sir ;  only  this."  He  held 
out  a  shirt  belonging  to  the  engineer ;  his  eyes  pleaded 
his  question.  Neville  nodded,  and  Dan  tore  the  shirt 
in  strips.  When  he  finished  the  task,  strange  to  his 
clumsy  hands,  Larry  had  regained  consciousness  and  lay 
trying  pitifully  to  stifle  his  moans. 

"  Does  it  make  you  feel  aisier,  Mouse  ?  "  Dan  leaned 
close  to  the  quivering  lips  to  catch  the  answer. 

"  It  helps  fine,"  Larry  answered,  and  fainted  again. 

"  You'll  be  leavin'  me  stay  wid  him,  sir?  "  Dan  begged. 
"  'T  was  for  me  he's  come  to  this." 

Neville  gave  consent  and  left  the  two  men  together. 

Between  four  and  five  in  the  morning,  when  Neville's 
watch  had  lived  through  thirty-three  unbroken  hours  of 
the  fearful  grind,  a  shout  that  ended  in  a  screaming 
laugh  ran  through  the  fire-room.  High  above  the  toil- 
crazed  men  a  door  had  opened  and  closed.  A  form, 
seen  dimly  through  the  smoke  and  steam,  was  moving 
backward  down  the  ladder.  Again  the  door  opened ; 
another  man  came  through.  Every  shovel  in  the  room 
fell  to  the  steel  floor ;  every  man  in  the  room  shouted  or 
laughed  or  cried. 

The  engine-room  door,  too,  had  opened,  admitting  the 
chief  and  his  assistant.  Not  until  he  had  examined  each 
mechanical  tragedy  below  did  the  chief  give  time  to  the 
human  one  above. 

"  Where's  that  man  that's  hurt?"  he  asked  as  he  came, 
slowly,  from  an  inspection  of  the  burned-out  bearings 
down  the  shaft  alley. 

Neville  went  with  him  to  the  store-room.     Dan,  sag- 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE  303 

ging  under  fatigue,  clung  to  the  bench  where  Larry  lay 
moaning. 

"  You  can  go  now,  Sullivan,"   Neville  told  him. 

Dan  raised  his  head,  remorse,  entreaty,  stubbornness 
in  his  look. 

"  Let  me  be  !     I'll  not  leave  him !  " 

The  chief  turned  to  Neville. 

"  What's  come  over  that  drunk  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ever  since  the  Mouse  got  hurt,  Sullivan's  acted 
queer,  just  like  a  woman." 

"  Get  to  your  quarters,  Sullivan,"  the  chief  ordered. 
"  We'll  take  care  of  this  man." 

Dan's  hands  closed ;  for  an  instant  he  glared  rebellion 
from  blood-shot  eyes.  Then  the  iron  law  of  sea  disci- 
pline conquering,  he  turned  to  Larry. 

"  The  Blessed  Virgin  aise  you,  poor  Mouse ! "  he 
mumbled  huskily  and  slouched  out  through  the  door. 

At  midday  the  San  Gardo's  captain  got  a  shot  at  the 
sun.  Though  his  vessel  had  been  headed  steadily  north- 
east for  more  than  thirty  hours,  the  observation  showed 
that  she  had  made  twenty-eight  miles  sternway  to  the 
southwest.  By  two  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  had 
dropped  to  half  a  gale,  making  a  change  of  course  pos- 
sible. The  captain  signaled  full  speed  ahead,  and  the 
ship,  swinging  about,  began  limping  across  the  gulf, 
headed  once  more  toward  Galveston. 

Neville,  who  had  slept  like  a  stone,  came  on  deck  just 
before  sunset.  The  piled-up  seas,  racing  along  the  side, 
had  lost  their  breaking  crests ;  the  ship  rose  and  fell  with 
some  degree  of  regularity.  He  called  the  boatswain  and 
went  to  the  store-room. 

They  found  Larry  in  one  of  his  conscious  moments. 

"  Well,  Mouse,  we're  going  to  fix  you  in  a  better 
place,"  the  engineer  called  with  what  heart  he  could 
show. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  Larry  managed  to  answer; 


304  THE  BUNKER  MOUSE 

"  but  't  is  my  last  voyage,  Mr.  Neville."  And  the  grit 
that  lay  hidden  in  the  man's  soul  showed  in  his  pain- 
twisted  smile. 

They  carried  him  up  the  last  flight  of  iron  stairs  to 
the  deck.  Clear  of  the  engine-room,  the  boatswain 
turned  toward  the  bow. 

"  No.     The  other  way.  Boson,"  Neville  ordered. 

The  chief,  passing  them,  stopped. 

"Where  are  you  taking  him,  Mr.  Neville?" 

"  The  poor  fellow's  dying,  sir,"  Neville  answered  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Well,  where  are  you  taking  him?"  the  chief  per- 
sisted. 

"  I'd  like  to  put  him  in  my  room,  sir," 

"  A  stoker  in  officers'  quarters  I  "  The  chief  frowned. 
"  Sunday-school  discipline  !  "  He  disappeared  through 
the  engine-room  door,  slamming  it  after  him. 

They  did  what  they  could,  these  seamen,  for  the  in- 
jured man ;  on  freighters  one  of  the  crew  has  no  business 
to  get  hurt.  They  laid  Larry  in  Neville's  berth  and  went 
out,  leaving  a  sailor  to  watch  over  him. 

The  sun  rose  the  next  day  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and 
shone  on  a  brilliant  sea  of  tumbling,  white-capped  waves. 
Far  off  the  starboard  bow  floated  a  thin  line  of  smoke 
from  a  tug's  funnel,  the  first  sign  to  the  crew  since  the 
hurricane  that  the  world  was  not  swept  clean  of  ships. 
Two  hours  later  the  tug  was  standing  by,  her  captain 
hailing  the  San  Gardo  through  a  megaphone. 

"  Run  in  to  New  Orleans  1 "  he  shouted. 

"  I  cleared  for  Galveston,  and  I'm  going  there,"  the  San 
Gardo's  captain  called  back. 

"  No,  you  ain't  neither." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why,  I  won't." 

"Because  you  can't," — the  answer  carried  distinctly 
across  the  waves, — "  there  ain't  no  such  place.  It's  been 
washed  clean  off  the  earth." 

The  San  Gardo  swung  farther  to  the  west  and  with 


FREDERICK  STUART  GREENE     305 

her  engine  pounding  at  every  stroke,  limped  on  toward 
the  Mississippi. 

At  five  o'clock  a  Port  Eads  pilot  climbed  over  the  side, 
and  taking  the  vessel  through  South  Pass,  straightened 
her  in  the  smooth,  yellow  waters  of  the  great  river  for 
the  hundred-mile  run  to  New  Orleans. 

When  the  sun  hung  low  over  the  sugar  plantations 
that  stretch  in  flat  miles  to  the  east  and  west  beyond  the 
levees,  when  all  was  quiet  on  land  and  water  and  ship, 
Neville  walked  slowly  to  the  forecastle. 

"  Sullivan,"  he  called,  "  come  with  me." 

Dan  climbed  down  from  his  bunk  and  came  to  the 
door ;  the  big  stoker  searched  Neville's  face  with  a 
changed,  sobered  look. 

"  I've  been  wantin'  all  this  time  to  go  to  'im.  How's 
he  now,  sir?  " 

"  He's  dying,  Sullivan,  and  has  asked  for  you." 

Outside  Neville's  quarters  Dan  took  off  his  cap  and 
went  quietly  into  the  room. 

Larry  lay  with  closed  eyes,  his  face  ominously  white. 

Dan  crept  clumsily  to  the  berth  and  put  his  big  hand 
on  Larry's  shoulder. 

"  It's  me,  Mouse.  They  wouldn't  leave  me  come  no 
sooner." 

Larry's  head  moved  slightly ;  his  faded  eyes  opened. 

Dan  stooped  in  awkward  embarrassment  until  his  face 
was  close  to  Larry. 

"  I  come  to  ask  you  — "  Dan  stopped.  The  muscles 
of  his  thick  neck  moved  jerkily  — "  to  ask  you,  Mouse, 
before  —  to  forgit  the  damn  mean  things  —  I  done  to 
you.  Mouse." 

Larry  made  no  answer ;  he  kept  his  failing  sight  fixed 
on  Dan. 

After  a  long  wait  Sullivan  spoke  again. 

"An'  to  think  you  done  it,  Mouse,  for  me!" 

A  light  sprang  to  Larry's  eyes,  flooding  his  near- 
sighted gaze  with  sudden  anger. 


306  THE  BUNKER  JS^OUSE 

"  For  you ! "  The  cry  came  from  his  narrow  chest 
with  jarring  force.  "You!  You!"  he  repeated  in  ris- 
ing voice.  "  It's  always  of  yourself  you're  thinkin',  Dan 
Sullivan !  "  He  stopped,  his  face  twitching  in  pain ;  then 
with  both  hands  clenched  he  went  on,  his  breast  heaving 
at  each  word  hurled  at  Dan : 

"  Do  you  think  I  followed  you  from  ship  to  ship, 
dragged  you  out  of  every  rum-hole  in  every  port,  for 
your  own  sake !  " 

He  lay  back  exhausted,  his  chest  rising  and  falling 
painfully,  his  eyelids  fluttering  over  his  burning  eyes. 

Dan  stepped  back,  and,  silenced,  stared  at  the  dying 
man. 

Larry  clung  to  his  last  moments  of  life,  fighting  for 
strength  to  finish.  He  struggled,  and  raised  himself  on 
one  elbow. 

"  For  you !  "  he  screamed.  "  No,  for  Mary  !  For 
Mary,  my  own  flesh  and  blood  —  Mary,  the  child  of  the 
woman  I  beat  when  I  was  drunk  an'  left  to  starve  when 
I  got  ready !  " 

Through  the  stateroom  door  the  sun's  flat  rays  struck 
full  on  Larry's  inspired  face.  He  swayed  on  his  elbow ; 
his  head  fell  forward.  By  a  final  effort  he  steadied  him- 
self.    His  last  words  came  in  ringing  command. 

"  Go  back  !  Go  — "  he  faltered,  gasping  for  breath  — 
"  go  home  sober  to  Mary  an'  the  child  that's  comin' !  " 

The  fire  of  anger  drifted  slowly  from  Larry's  dying 
gaze.  The  little  man  fell  back.  The  Bunker  Mouse 
went  out,  all  man,  big  at  the  end. 


RAINBOW  PETE^ 

By  RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET 

From    The    Pictorial    Review 

IN  pursuance  of  a  policy  to  detain  us  on  the  island 
at  Sick  Dog  until  the  arrival  of  his  daughter,  Papa 
Isbister  thought  fit  to  tell  us  the  fate  of  Rainbow  Pete, 
of  whose  physical  deformity  and  thirst  for  gold  we  knew 
something  already.  Rainbow  Pete  had  come  to  Alushrat 
Portage,  playing  his  flute,  at  a  time  when  preparations 
were  being  made  to  blast  a  road-bed  through  the  wilder- 
ness for  the  railroad. 

Mushrat  Portage  had  been  but  recently  a  willow  clump, 
and  a  black  rock  ledge  hanging  over  a  precipitous  valley : 
the  hand  of  the  Indian  could  be  seen  one  day  parting  the 
leaves  of  the  trail,  and  on  the  next,  drills  came  and  tins 
of  black  powder,  and  hordes  of  greedy  men,  blind  with  a 
burning  zeal  for  "  monkeying  with  powder  "  as  our  host 
of  Sick  Dog  said.  They  were  strange  men,  hoarse  men, 
unreasonable  men  who  cast  sheep's-eyes  at  the  dark 
woman  from  Regina,  whose  shack,  rented  of  Scarecrow 
Charlie,  crowned  the  high  point  of  the  ledge.  She  was 
the  only  woman  on  Mushrat,  and  at  a  time  just  before  the 
blasting  began,  when  Rainbow  Pete  sauntered  over  the 
trail  with  his  pick  and  his  flute  and  his  dirty  bag  of  rock 
specimens,  she  was  hungrily  watched  and  waited  on  by 
the  new  inhabitants  of  that  ancient  portage — Mushrat, 
whose  destinies  were  soon  to  be  so  splendid,  and  whose 
skies  were  to  be  rocked  and  rent  by  the  thunders  of  men 
struggling  with  reluctant  nature,  monkeying  with  powder. 

I  Copyright,    1917,   by    The   Pictorial    Review    Company.     Copyright,    1918, 
by    Richard   Matthews   Hallet. 

307 


308  RAINBOW  PETE 

When  Pete  laid  down  his  tools  and  guns  on  the  table  at 
Scarecrow  Charlie's,  where  the  woman  was  employed, 
had  he  in  his  heart  some  foreshadowing  presentiment  of 
the  peril  he  was  in,  of  the  sharp  destroying  fire  of  a  reso- 
lute woman's  eyes,  which  he  was  subjecting  himself  to, 
in  including  her  in  his  universal  caress?  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  his  flute  had  whispered  tidings  to  him.  He  was, 
said  Papa  Isbister,  immensely  proud  of  his  plaything,  this 
huge  gaunt  sailor,  who  had  been  bent  into  the  shape  of  a 
rainbow  —  the  foot  of  a  rainbow  —  by  a  chance  shot, 
which  shattered  his  hip  and  gave  him  an  impressive  for- 
ward cant,  which  appeared  to  women,  it  seemed  —  I 
quote  my  old  friend  —  in  the  light  of  an  endearing  droop. 

The  romantic  visitation  of  this  musical  sailorman  made 
the  efforts  of  all  Mushrat  as  nothing.  But  Rainbow 
Pete  seemed  unaware  of  the  fiery  jealousies  glowing  in 
the  night  on  all  sides  of  him  when  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
her  for  the  first  time  —  with  that  mellow  assurance  of  a 
careless  master  of  the  hearts  and  whims  of  women. 

"What's  this  he  said  to  her?"  said  our  old  friend. 
"  It  was  skilful;  it  was  put  like  a  notable  question  if  she 
took  it  so." 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  out  to-night,"  he  said  to  her, 
with  his  guns  on  the  table. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  she  said  to  the  man. 

"  There  you  will  be  taking  the  words  out  of  my  mouth 
to  suit  your  heart,"  he  went  on  saying  to  her.  "  Mark 
this,  I'm  making  this  a  command  to  you.  You  don't 
want  to  go  out  to-night.     Do  not  do  it." 

This  he  told  her  was  on  account  of  stray  bullets,  be- 
cause he  was  meaning  to  shoot  up  that  place. 

Heh!  It  was  a  trick  of  his,  to  trap  her  into  denying 
him  when  he  had  made  no  offer. 

Old  Isbister  laughed  heartily  at  this  picture  of  Pete  in 
the  days  of  his  triumph. 

He  was  a  captivating  man,  it  appeared.  He  was  tat- 
tooed. On  his  arms  were  snakes  and  the  like  of  that, 
daggers  and  the  like  of  that,  dragons  and  the  like  of  that. 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET         309 

This  was  a  romantic  skin  to  the  man;  and  his  blue  eyes 
were  like  the  diamond  drills  they  were  bringing  to  Mush- 
rat. 

"  Oh  my,"  said  the  woman,  leaning  at  his  table,  "  this 
is  what  will  be  keeping  me  from  mass,  I  shouldn't  won- 
der." 

This  was  a  prairie  woman  from  Regina ;  now  mark,  it 
was  whispered  to  be  no  credit  to  human  nature  that  she 
had  had  to  leave  that  town.  No.  She  was  a  full  woman, 
very  deep,  with  burning  eyes.  It  was  hard  talking  with 
her,  because  of  her  lingering  speech.  Oh,  she  was  a  mas- 
sive woman,  for  the  small  shoes  she  wore.  She  was  tall, 
as  high  as  Rainbow  Pete's  shoulder.  She  purchased 
scent  for  her  hair.  This  I  know,  having  seen  it  standing 
in  the  bottles.     She  was  a  prairie  woman. 

This  was  a  wild  night  we  spent  on  Mushrat,  after 
Pete's  reproving  the  woman  there  in  Scarecrow  Charlie's 
place.  Smash  McGregor,  the  little  doctor,  was  sitting 
between  us  in  his  yellow  skull-cap;  and  Willis  Country- 
man \yas  reading  and  drinking  in  one  corner,  listening  to 
the  laughing  men  there.  They  were  laughing,  thinking 
of  the  fortunes  there  would  be  here  when  blasting  begun. 

But  Rainbow  Pete  was  not  one  of  the  rockmen.  No. 
He  told  them  strange  tales  of  gold.  Heh!  He  was 
athirst  for  gold.  Strange  tales  he  told  of  gold.  Once 
how  in  Australia  he  had  hold  of  a  lump  of  it  as  big  as  poor 
McGregor's  skull,  but  isn't  it  a  perishing  pity,  oh  my,  this 
was  just  a  desert  where  he  was,  there  was  no  water,  he 
grew  faint  carrying  the  nugget.  Our  mouths  were  open 
when  the  man  told  us  he  had  dropped  it  in  the  desert, 
with  his  name  carved  on  it. 

"  There  it  is  to  this  day,  sinking  in  the  sands,"  he  said. 
Oh,  the  proud  woman  from  Regina.  There  she  turned 
her  dark  eyes  over  our  heads,  never  looking  at  the  plausi- 
ble man  at  all ;  but  she  had  heard  him. 

"  Gold  ?  "  said  Smash  McGregor.  "  Why,  there's  gold 
enough  in  the  world." 

"  Ay,  there's  comfort  too,  if  you  know  where  to  take 


3IO  RAINBOW  PETE 

it,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  twirling  here  at  his  mustache  and 
looking  at  the  woman. 

"  There's  gold,"  said  McGregor,  "  for  any  man." 

>*  Yes,  my  hearty,"  said  Pdte,  "it's  twinkling  in  the 
river-beds,  it  shines  in  the  sands  under  your  feet,  but 
still  it's  hard  to  get  in  your  two  fisties." 

"  Why,"  said  Smash  McGregor,  "  did  you  never  hear 
there's  a  pot  of  gold  at  the  foot  of  every  rainbow?  " 

Oh,  my  friend,  as  he  went  mentioning  the  rainbow, 
there  was  a  thunder-cap  on  the  brow  of  that  great  sailor. 

"  So  they  call  me  —  Rainbow  Pete,"  he  said. 

"  Look  then,"  said  McGregor,  "  take  the  pick,  and 
strike  the  ground  at  your  feet." 

Rainbow  Pete  was  not  hearing  them. 

"  This  is  a  man  I  have  been  following  on  many  trails," 
he  muttered,  "  This  man  who  made  a  rainbow  of  me. 
Mark  this,  he  shall  thirst,  if  I  meet  him.  Ay !  He  shall 
burn  with  these  fingers  at  his  throat.  He  shall  have  gold 
poured  into  him  like  liquid,  however." 

It  was  plain  he  had  no  love  for  this  man  who  had  fash- 
ioned him  in  the  form  of  a  rainbow. 

"  What  is  this  man  called  ?  "  said  the  little  doctor. 

"  It's  a  dark  man  wearing  a  red  cap,  called  Pal  Yachy," 
said  Rainbow  Pete.  "  He  spends  his  time  escaping  me. 
Look,  where  he  shot  me  in  the  hip.'' 

Now  we  shielded  him,  and  he  drew  out  his  shirt  show- 
ing the  wound  in  the  thigh  which  made  a  rainbow  of  him ; 
but  stop,  didn't  McGregor  discover  the  strange  business 
on  his  spine? 

"  What's  this,  however?  "  he  said. 

"  This  is  a  palm-tree,"  said  the  man.  "  Stand  close 
about  me." 

Oh  my,  we  stood  close,  watching  the  man  twisting  up 
his  shirt,  and  here  we  saw  the  palm-tree  going  up  his 
spine,  and  every  joint  of  his  spine  was  used  for  a  joint 
of  the  tree,  like ;  and  the  long  blue  leaves  were  waving  on 
his  shoulder-blade  when  he  would  be  rippling  the  skin. 
This  was  a  fine  broad  back  like  satin  to  be  putting  a 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  311 

palm-tree  on.  Look,  as  I  am  lifting  my  head,  here  I  see 
the  dark  woman  silent  at  the  bar,  burning  up  with  Curi- 
osity at  what  we  are  hiding  here.  Listen,  it's  the  man's 
voice,  under  his  shirt. 

"  This  was  done  in  the  South  Seas,  when  I  was  young,'' 
he  said  to  us,  *'  and  the  bigger  I  grow,  the  bigger  the  tree 
is.  And  now  what  next  ?  "  Then  he  put  his  shirt  back, 
and  stood  up  to  be  fixing  an  eye  on  the  woman  from 
Regina. 

He  was  first  to  be  waited  on  at  Scarecrow  CharUe's. 
Yes,  he  was  first.  This  was  a  mystery  of  a  man  to  that 
dark  woman  from  Regina. 

Now  in  these  days  before  blasting  began,  they  were 
fond  of  talking  marriage  on  Mushrat,  thinking  of  this 
woman  from  Regina,  who  was  at  the  disposal  of  no  man 
there.  They  were  full  of  doubts  and  wonderments,  when 
they  would  be  idling  together  in  Scarecrow  Charlie's. 
But  now  one  morning  when  they  were  idling  there,  Shoe- 
pack  Sam  must  be  yawning  and  saying  to  them, 

"  Oh,  my,  this  is  the  time  now,  before  the  sun  is  up, 
I'm  glad  I  am  not  married.  It's  a  pleasure  to  be  a  single 
man  at  this  hour." 

Heh !  Heh !  As  a  usual  thing  we  are  not  gratified  at 
all  for  this  favor  of  heaven.  A  single  man,  Shoepack 
Sam  was  saying,  would  not  have  to  be  looking  at  the 
wreck  of  his  wife  in  the  morning;  and  this  is  when 
women  were  caught  unawares  in  the  gill-nets  time  is 
lowering  for  them. 

"  They  are  pale  about  the  gills  then,"  he  said.  "  They 
are  just  drowned  fish.  They  have  stayed  in  the  nets  too 
long." 

"  No,  it's  not  certain,"  said  Rainbow  Pete.  "  She 
might  be  pleasant-looking  on  the  pillow  with  her  hair 
adrift." 

Then  Shoepack  told  him  that  the  salt  water  had  leaked 
into  his  brains,  what  with  his  voyages. 

"  Still,  this  is  a  beautiful  cheek,"  said  Pete,  speaking 
low,  because  she  was  moving  about  beyond  the  boards. 


312  RAINBOW  PETE 

"  These  things  are  purchased,"  said  Shoepack,  scraping 
his  feet  together  in  yellow  moosehides.  "  Listen  to  me, 
I  have  seen  them  in  a  long  line,  on  her  shelf,  with  many 
odors." 

So  they  were  talking  together,  and  Rainbow  Pete  was 
putting  his  fingers  to  the  flute  and  staring  down  the  val- 
ley, where  Throat  River  was  twisting  like  a  rag. 

"  I  could  have  had  a  wife  for  speaking  at  Kicking 
Horse,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  one  for  speaking  now,"  said  Shoepack. 

"  In  a  few  days  I  go  North,"  Rainbow  Pete  went  mut- 
tering. "  There  is  gold  at  Dungeon  Creek.  I  have  seen 
samples  JDf  this  vein." 

"  She  will  be  the  less  trouble  to  you  then,  if  you  are 
not  satisfied  on  this  question,"  said  Shoepack  Sam. 

Then  Rainbow  Pete  said  he  was  not  so  certain  of  her, 
on  questioning  himself.     He  was  a  modest  man. 

"  This  palm-tree  and  the  other  designs  you  have  not 
been  speaking  about  will  be  enticing  her,"  said  Shoepack 
Sam.  "  But  do  not  speak  to  her  of  going  away  at  the 
time  of  asking  her." 

"  This  is  wisdom,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  and  he  put  his 
lips  to  the  flute,  to  be  giving  us  a  touch  of  music. 
.  This  was  a  light  reason  for  marriage,  disn't  it  seem? 
This  was  what  Willis  Countryman  called  a  marriage  of 
convenience,  in  the  fashion  of  frogs.  Ay!  It  was  con- 
venient to  them  to  be  married.  He  was  a  great  reader  — 
Willis. 

.  So  they  were  married,  I'm  telling  you,  but  it's  impos- 
sible to  know  what  he  said  to  her  in  speaking  about  it. 
They  were  married  by  the  man  called  Justice  of  the 
Peace  on  Mushrat.  This  was  before  the  blasting,  and  it 
was  the  first  marriage  on  Mushrat. 

Then  they  lived  together  in  the  little  house  she  had 
chosen,  sitting  on  the  black  ledge  above  Scarecrow 
Charlie's  eating-place.  Now  it  was  a  wonderment  to. 
Mushrat,  to  hear  the  sound  of  Rainbow  Pete's  old  flute 
dropping  from  the  dark  ledge,  by  night,  when  they  were 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  313 

taking  their  opinion  of  matrimony  up  there  together,  with 
a  candle  at  the  window. 

But  now  look  here,  when  Shoepack  Sam  came  pluck- 
ing him  at  the  elbow,  saying,  "  Was  I  right  or  was  I 
wrong?"  then  Rainbow  Pete  stared  at  him  with  his  eyes 
like  drills,  and  he  said  to  him,  "  You  were  curious  and 
nothing  more."  Oh  my,  isn't  this  the  perversity  of  mar- 
ried men. 

They  bore  him  a  grudge  on  Mushrat,  for  his  silence, 
because,  disn't  it  seem,  this  was  like  a  general  marriage 
satisfying  all  men's  souls.  It  was  treasonable.  Oh  my, 
it  was  sailor's  mischief  to  be  living  on  that  ledge,  and 
dropping  nothing  but  notes  from  his  greasy  flute.  These 
are  sweet  but  they  are  hard  to  be  turning  into  language. 

Now  one  morning,  when  I  saw  him  coming  from  the 
ledge  with  his  bag  of  specimens  over  his  shoulder,  I  saw 
without  speaking  to  him  that  he  was  parching  with  his 
thirst  for  gold.  He  was  going  awdy  into  the  bush, 
thinking  no  more  of  his  new  wife.  Oh,  he  was  a  casual 
man. 

"How  is  this?"  I  said.  "Can  she  be  left  alone  on 
the  ledge  ?  " 

"Can  she  not?"  said  Rainbow  Pete.  "Old  fellow, 
this  is  a  substantial  woman.  She  was  alone  before  I 
came." 

"  This  is  not  the  same  thing,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  the  same  woman,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  "  she 
will  be  missing  nothing  but  the  flute." 

Oh  my,  wasn't  the  flute  a  little  thing  to  reckon  with. 
He  went  North,  dreaming  of  gold,  and  here  the  matter 
they  were  thinking  about  was  locked  in  his  heart.  They 
were  angry  with  the  man  on  Mushrat.  This  was  not 
what  they  were  looking  for  between  friends.  They  were 
hoping  to  learn  the  result  of  the  experiment;  but  this 
was  vain. 

When  he  was  gone,  I  saw  her  looking  down  into  the 
valley,  where  the  first  shots  were  being  fired  in  the  rock. 
Ay,  the  sun  was  dazzling  het  eyes,  but  she  dis  not  move. 


314  RAINBOW  PETE 

sitting  as  if  her  arms  have  been  chopped  from  the  shoul- 
ders. 

Now  it  was  not  many  days  after  this  that  the  blasting 
was  begun  on  Mushrat.  Men  came  with  instruments 
stamped  by  the  government;  these  they  pointed  down 
the  trail  and  drove  stakes  into  the  ground.  These  were 
great  days  on  Mushrat.  Oh  yes,  numbers  of  Swedes  and 
Italians  were  in  a  desperate  way  monkeying  with  powder. 
It's  a  fetching  business.  In  a  week,  look  here,  Scarecrow 
Charlie  left  his  eating-place  to  go  monkeying  with  pow- 
der like  the  others,  and  disn't  he  get  a  bolt  of  iron  through 
his  brain  one  morning?  Oh,  it's  very  much  as  if  some 
one  had  pushed  a  broom-handle  through  his  skull. 

That  dark  woman  from  Regina  was  not  dismayed. 
She  ran  the  eating-place  herself.  This  was  a  famous 
place :  they  heard  of  this  as  far  West  as  Regina  and  they 
came  here  to  work  and  eat,  attracted  by  her.  She  was 
valuable  to  the  contractors,  bringing  labor  here.  Disn't 
it  seem  an  achievement  for  a  married  woman?  Still, 
Rainbow  Pete  was  not  remembered  after  a  time ;  and  she 
was  a  dark  beauty,  with  a  reputation  for  not  saying  much. 

My,  my,  these  were  golden  days  for  Smash  McGregor. 
I  ponder  over  them,  thinking  what  a  business  he  had. 
He  was  paid  by  the  contractors  to  be  sorting  out  arms 
and  legs,  putting  the  short  ones  together  in  one  box,  and 
the  long  ones  in  another,  marked  with  charcoal  to  he 
shipped.  Oh,  they  were  just  gathering  up  parts  of  mor- 
tals in  packing  cases,  dispatching  them  to  Throat  River 
Landing ;  and  blood  was  leaking  on  the  decks  every  way 
in  little  lines.     They  were  unlikely  consignments. 

Then,  my  friend,  there  came  one  night  a  dark  man 
wearing  a  red  cap  and  here  under  his  arm  he  had  the 
instrument  with  strings.  This  was  the  Chief  Contractor 
under  the  Government  in  this  region.  He  was  rich ;  at 
Winnipeg  he  had  stabled  many  blood  horses.  Then  they 
were  clustering  about  him  at  Scarecrow  Charlie's,  ask- 
ing him  his  name.     This,  he  said,  was  Pal  Yachy. 

Oh  my,  now  we  knew  him.     This  was  the  man  wb© 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  315 

had  given  Pete  his  shape  of  a  rainbow.  Disn't  it  seem 
an  unfortunate  thing  for  him  to  be  coming  here?  Still 
he  did  not  know  at  first  that  this  dark  woman  standing 
there  was  the  wife  of  Rainbow  Pete. 

He  went  flashing  at  her  with  his  teeth,  the  dark  musi- 
cian. Ay,  he  was  better  with  the  music  than  Rainbow 
Pete's  old  flute.  He  sang,  plucking  this  instrument,  with 
a  jolly  face.  Heh !  Heh !  She  leaned  over  the  bar, 
looking  at  him,  and  dreaming  of  the  prairies. 

Then  they  told  him  that  this  woman  was  the  wife  of 
Rainbow  Pete. 

"  Aha,"  he  said,  "  but,  my  friends,  a  rainbow  is  not 
for  very  long.  It  is  beautiful,  but  look,  it  vanishes  in 
air." 

Was  he  afraid,  without  saying  so  ?  That  I  can  not  tell 
you.  Still  he  stayed  on  Alushrat.  He  was  the  destroyer 
of  his  countrymen.  They  blew  themselves  to  pieces  in 
his  service,  coming  in  great  numbers  when  he  crooked  hi.'; 
finger. 

Then  my  friend,  he  made  himself  noticeable  to  that 
dark  woman.  He  took  his  instrument  to  the  ledge  and 
sang  to  her. 

This  I  know  from  Willis  Countryman  who  lived  near 
that  place.  He  told  me  that  the  man  sang  in  the  night  a 
soft  song  and  that  the  woman  listened.  Ay,  she  listened 
in  the  window,  looking  down  into  the  valley  where  Throat 
River  went  roaring  and  the  great  Falls  were  like  rags 
waving  in  the  dark.  Ay,  she  sat  watching  the  River 
come  out  of  the  North,  where  Rainbow  Pete  was  cruis- 
ing after  gold. 

This  Willis  Countryman  I'm  telling  you  about  was  a 
fine  man  in  his  old  age  for  reading.  Oh,  it  was  not  easy 
talking  to  the  man,  with  his  muttering  and  muttering  and 
his  chin  down  firm  intil  the  book.  When  he  had  his 
shack  on  Mouse  Island  the  fire  jumped  over  from  the 
wind-rows  they  were  burning  in  a  right  of  way.  What 
next?  Disn't  he  put  his  furs  in  a  canoe  to  sink  in  the 
lee  of  the  island,  and  there  he  went  on  reading  in  the 


3i6  RAINBOW  PETE 

night  with  his  chin  out  of  water,  and  the  light  from  his 
house  blazing  and  lighting  up  the  book  in  his  fist.  Oh 
my,  he  was  great  for  reading,  Willis. 

Well,  here,  one  night  he  came  telling  me  about  some 
queer  women  on  a  beach,  singing.'  "  Ay !  It  was  impos- 
sible to  keep  away  from  them  while  they  were  at  it. 
What  is  their  name  again  ?  " 

He  made  a  prolonged  effort  to  remember,  sighed  pain- 
fully, fixed  his  gaze.  I  brought  him  back  as  if  from  a  fit 
of  epilepsy  by  the  interjection  of  the  word,  "  Siren." 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  slowly  and  sadly.  "  The  men  put  wax 
in  their  ears — "  Now  mark  this.  The  day  after  I  was 
hearing  this  of  Willis,  the  woman  put  her  hand  on  my 
arm  as  I  was  passing  the  ledge. 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  my  husband's,"  she  whispered  to 
me. 

"What  now?"  I  said. 

"  Will  he  come  back  to  me,  I  wonder?  "  she  said,  look- 
ing in  the  valley. 

"  This  is  a  long  business,  searching  for  gold,"  I  went 
muttering. 

"  No  man  can  say  I  have  been  unfaithful  to  him,"  she 
said  to  me,  the  fierce  woman,  breathing  through  her 
teeth.     "  I  have  been  speaking  to  no  man." 

"  This  is  certain,"  I  said  to  her. 

"  If  he  dis  not  come  according  to  my  dream  I  am  a 
lost  woman,  by  this  way  of  going  on,"  she  said  to  me. 

How  is  this?  There  were  tears  flowing  on  the  face, 
while  she  was  telling  me  she  was  bewitched  by  the  sing- 
ing of  Pal  Yachy. 

Oh,  at  first  she  would  just  lie  listening  there,  but  now 
the  man  with  his  sweet  voice  was  drawing  her  from  her 
bed.  to  come  putting  aside  the  scented  bottles  and  leaning 
in  the  window. 

Now  I  said,  "  My  good  woman,  I  am  an  old  man  with 
knowledge  of  the  world.  This  man  is  a  —  what's  this 
again  —  siren.  He  has  a  fatal  voice.  You  must  simply 
put  wax  in  your  ears  not  to  hear  it  when  he  comes." 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  317 

What  next?  Disn't  she  confess  to  me  that  she  has 
listened  to  him  too  many  times  to  be  deaf  to  him.  No, 
she  must  watch  the  valley  when  he  comes  singing  his 
rich  song;  her  cheeks  were  wet  then,  and  the  wind  went 
shaking  her.  No,  this  was  not  a  moment  for  wax.  I 
was  an  old  man.  She  prevailed  upon  me  to  sit  outside 
her  window  in  a  chair,  watching  for  him. 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid,"  she  whispered  to  me,  "  being  alone 
so  high  out  of  the  valley." 

There  I  sat  by  night,  hearing  sounds  of  thunder  below 
this  crag.  Pebbles  came  rattling  on  the  window,  the 
rapid  was  choked  with  flying  rock.  They  were  growing 
rich,  these  madmen  monkeying  with  powder.  The  gov- 
ernment sent  them  gold  in  sacks,  to  pay  those  who  were 
left  for  the  lives  that  had  been  lost. 

They  were  mad ;  they  tumbled  champagne  out  of  bot- 
tles into  tubs,  frisking  about  in  it.  They  had  heard  that 
this  was  done  with  money. 

But  Pal  Yachy  was  more  foolish.  He  came  singing; 
oh  my,  this  was  a  powerful  song,  ringing  against  the 
ledges.  This  was  a  fantastic  Italian,  singing  like  an 
angel  to  the  deserted  woman.  Her  eyes  were  dark ;  the 
breast  heaved.  Oh,  these  sweet  notes  were  never  lost  on 
her. 

Now  at  this  time,  too,  Pal  Yachy  offered  a  great  prize 
for  the  first  child  to  be  born  on  Mushrat.  He  came 
grinning  under  his  red  cap,  saying  to  us,  "  There  are  so 
many  dying,  should  there  not  be  a  prize  offered  for  new 
life?" 

He  had  learned  what  manner  the  woman  had  of  sur- 
prising Rainbow  Pete.  It  was  a  great  prize  he  offered. 
When  the  child  was  born,  he  stopped  the  monkeying 
with  powder  in  the  valley  for  that  day,  though  this  too 
was  a  great  loss  in  money.     The  woman  pleased  him. 

Then,  my  friend,  on  the  night  of  the  day  when  this 
child  was  born,  Rainbow  Pete  came  back  into  the  valley. 
Oh  my,  it's  plain  to  us.  looking  at  the  man  under  the 
stars,  he  has  been  toughing  it.     Ayl    His  beard  was 


3i8  RAINBOW  PETE 

tangled,  the  great  bones  were  rising  on  his  bare  chest,  his 
fingers  twitched  as  he  was  drooping  over  us.  Now  I'm 
telling  you  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  the  sun  had  bleached 
his  mustache  the  color  of  a  lemon.  There  he  stood  be- 
fore us,  holding  the  bag  over  his  shoulder,  while  he  went 
scratching  his  bold  nose  like  the  picture  of  a  pirate. 
Still  he  was  gentle  in  the  eye ;  he  was  mild  in  misfortune. 
Oh,  this  sailorman  was  just  used  to  toughing  it. 

Look  here,  there  he  stopped,  in  the  shadow  of  this 
great  rock  I'm  speaking  of,  and  these  men  of  Mushrat 
came  asking  him  if  he  had  made  the  grade.  They  were 
fresh  from  dipping  their  carcasses  in  champagne.  They 
were  sparkling  men,  not  accountable  to  themselves. 

"  Have  you  made  the  grade  ?  "  they  went  bawling  to 
him.     This  is  to  say,  had  he  struck  gold? 

"  Oh,  there's  gold  enough,"  Pete  went  rumbling  at 
them,  "  but  it's  too  far  to  the  North,  mate.  There's  no 
taickle  made  for  getting  purchase  on  it." 

"  So  I  am  thinking,"  said  the  little  medicine-man,  Mc- 
Gregor.    "  It  lies  still  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow." 

"  Ay,"  said  Rainbow  Pete ;  but  with  this  word  we  went 
thinking  of  Pal  Yachy.  Still  we  did  not  speak  the  name 
of  that  Italian.  No,  this  would  be  stronger  in  the  ear  of 
that  sailorman  than  gunpowder  in  the  valley. 

"  Look  you  here,"  said  Rainbow  Pete.  "  I  am  starv- 
ing. I  have  not  eaten  in  two  days.  This  is  the  curse 
falling  on  me  for  hunting  gold." 

Then  they  laughed,  these  mad  rockmen,  mocking  him 
with  their  eyes.  Their  eyes  were  twitching;  there  was 
powder  in  the  corners  of  them. 

"  Are  you  not  master  of  the  eating-place?  "  they  howled 
at  him.  "  Look,  there  it  stands ;  is  not  your  wife  alone 
in  it?" 

"  Oh  my,  oh  my,  he  stood  looking  at  them  with  a 
ghastly  face.  Disn't  he  seem  the  casual  man  ?  It's  as  if 
he  had  forgotten  that  woman.  He  had  no  memories  at 
all. 

"  My  wife,"  said  the  rainbow-man. 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  319 

"Look,''  said  Shoepack  Sam  —  oh,  he  remembered 
treason  well  — "  he  is  forgetful  that  he  has  a  wife  on 
Mushrat." 

This  was  so  appearedly.  There  he  stood  in  the  blue 
star-shine,  fingering  his  flute  to  bring  her  back  to  mind. 
Now,  I  thought,  he  will  be  asking  what  description  of 
wife  is  this  answering  to  my  name  on  Mushrat?  Oh, 
man  is  careless  in  appointing  himself  among  various 
women. 

Now,  my  friend,  Rainbow  Pete,  blew  a  note  on  his  flute 
to  settle  the  thing  clear  in  his  mind.  Oh,  he  was  not  too 
brisk  in  looking  up  at  the  black  ledge,  with  the  candle  in 
the  window.  Now  he  was  taken  by  the  knees.  This  is 
not  the  convenient  part  of  a  marriage  of  convenience. 
No.  But  Shoepack  Sam  was  waving  a  hand  to  us  to  be 
telling  the  man  nothing  of  destiny  at  that  moment. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  the  flute  is  nothing  now.  There 
must  be  more  song  than  this,  by  what  is  going  on." 

Here  he  took  Rainbow  by  the  elbow,  telling  him  to 
come  and  eat  at  Scarecrow  Charlie's,  for  he  will  need 
his  strength. 

"  I  am  in  charge  here  for  the  day,"  said  Shoepack. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  said  Rainbow,  whispering. 

They  went  laughing  on  all  sides  of  him.  Oh  the 
demons,  they  were  cackling  while  he  sat  devouring  a 
great  moose  joint,  until  he  was  close  to  braining  them 
with  the  yellow  ball  of  the  joint.  He  went  eating  like  a 
timber-wolf  from  Great  Bear. 

"  This  is  the  palm-tree  man,"  they  sang  in  his  ear. 
"  Oh,  why  is  it  he  grew  no  cocoanuts  stumbling  on  that 
lost  trail  ?  Isn't  it  convenient  for  the  man  he  is  married 
this  night  ?  " 

Oh,  they  were  full  of  mischief  with  him,  remembering 
the  secret  face  he  had  for  them  in  the  days  of  his  experi- 
ment. 

"  Drink  this,"  said  Shoepack  Sam.  There  he  put 
champagne  in  a  glass  before  him.  Oh,  they  were  careful 
of  the  man. 


320  RAINBOW  PETE 

"  Here,  take  my  hand,  and  let  me  see  if  strength  is 
coming  back,"  said  Shoepack.  "  What  is  a  rainbow 
without  colors?" 

Then  the  little  medicine-man  took  his  pulse,  kneeling  on 
the  floor  beside  him.  Oh,  the  great  sailor  was  puzzled. 
Still  he  drank  what  was  in  the  glass  before  him  and  after 
this  he  put  his  mustache  into  his  mouth,  sipping  it  by 
chance. 

"What  is  this  you  are  preparing?"  he  said,  pointing 
his  bold  nose  to  them.  Oh,  the  eyes  were  like  a 
dreamer's :  he  was  a  child  to  appearances. 

Then  they  went  speaking  to  him  of  the  stringed  instru- 
ment they  had  heard  humming  on  the  ledge,  speaking 
another  language  than  his  own. 

"  This  is  a  wife  to  be  defended,"  said  Shoepack  Sam, 
padding  there  with  his  yellow  shoepacks  bringing  an- 
other drink.  But  still  there  was  no  word  of  Pal  Yachy. 
That  black  Italian  was  not  popular  at  Throat  River. 

"  Now  I  see  you  are  speaking  of  another  man,"  said 
Rainbow  Pete.  Then  Shoepack  Sam  went  roaring,  it 
was  time  for  honest  men  to  speak,  when  an  honest  woman 
was  being  taken  by  a  voice. 

"  Wait,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  with  his  thumb  in  the 
foam,  "  this  is  unlikely  she  will  want  me  cruising  in,  with 
another  man  singing  in  her  ear." 

Oh  my,  he  was  a  considerate  man,  he  was  a  natural 
husband,  thinking  of  his  wife's  feelino^s. 

"  Are  you  a  man  ?  "  said  Smash  McGregor.  "  Here 
she  has  fed  you  when  you  were  starving  —  this  is  her 
food  you  have  been  eating.  Will  you  pass  this  ledge, 
leaving  her  to  fortune  ?  " 

Rainbow  Pete  went  putting  the  edge  of  the  cruiser's 
ax  to  his  twisted  thumb. 

"  I  come  to  her  in  my  shoes  only,"  he  said.  "  This  is 
not  what  she  will  be  wanting.     I  have  no  gold." 

They  were  shouting  to  him  to  have  no  thought  of  that, 
those  mad  rockmen.  There  would  be  gold  in  plenty. 
There  would  be  gold.     Only  go  up  on  the  ledge. 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET         321 

"Heard  you  nothing  of  the  prize  ? "  they  bawled  to 
him,  the  mischief  makers.  "  Oh,  there  will  be  no  lack 
of  money." 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  said  Rainbow  Pete.  But  they  would 
not  be  answering  him.  No !  No !  They  went  tuml)ling 
him  out  of  Scarecrow  Charlie's  place,  and  making  for  the 
ledge  with  him.  Oh  my,  the  mystified  man.  This  was  a 
great  shameface  he  had  behind  his  mustache. 

"  I  am  much  altered  for  the  worse,"  he  went  mutter- 
ing to  us.     "  She  will  think  nothing  of  me  now." 

"  There  is  still  time  for  constancy,"  said  Shoepack 
Sam.     "  Do  not  lose  hope." 

Then  he  told  them  to  be  quiet,  looking  up  at  the 
dark  ledge  where  the  woman  lay. 

"  Old  Greyback,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  whispering  to 
me,  "  I  am  mistrustful  of  this  moment." 

"Hist!"  said  McGregor,  "that  was  the  sound  of  his 
string.     He  will  be  beginning  now." 

Ay,  the  voice  began.  We  were  wooden  men,  in  rows, 
listening  to  this  Italian  singing  here  a  golden  dream 
between  his  teeth, 

"  Who  is  this  man  ? "  said  Rainbow  Pete.  Heh  1 
Heh !  Had  he  not  heard  this  voice  before  ?  We  were 
dumb.  Oh,  this  was  wild,  this  was  sweet,  the  long  cry 
of  the  man  over  the  deep  valley.  He  sang  in  his  throat, 
saying  to  the  woman  there  would  be  no  returning.  The 
night  was  blue.  I'm  telling  you.  He  was  a  cunning 
beggar,  Pal  Yachy,  for  making  the  stars  burn  in  their 
sockets. 

Now  I  saw  him  lift  his  arm  to  his  head,  the  wicked 
sailor,  listening  to  the  tune  of  his  enemy.  Ay,  this  was 
the  man  who  had  fashioned  him  in  the  form  of  a  rain- 
bow. Still  he  did  not  know  it.  dreaming  on  his  feet. 
He  went  swaying  like  a  poplar. 

Look,  I  am  an  old  man,  but  I  stood  thinking  of  my 
airly  days.  Yes,  yes.  My  brain  was  heavy.  Oh,  it  was 
a  sweet  dagger  here  twisting  in  the  soul  of  man.  I  went 
picturing  the  deep  snow  to  me,  and  the  dark  spruces  of 


322  RAINBOW  PETE 

the  North ;  oh,  the  roses  are  speaking  to  me  again  from 
this  cheek  that  has  been  gone  from  me  so  long. 

Heh !  Heh !  I  should  not  be  speaking  of  this.  It 
was  a  sorrowful  harp,  the  voice  of  that  fiend.  It  was 
like  the  wind  following  the  eddy  into  Lookout  Cavern. 
Now  it  went  choking  that  great  sailor  at  the  throat ;  look, 
he  was  mild,  he  was  a  simple  man  for  crying.  The  tears 
rolled  in  his  cheek,  they  sparkled  there  like  the  cham- 
pagne. 

Oh  my,  the  song  was  done. 

He  was  dumb,  the  great  sailor,  twisting  his  mustache. 

"  Come  now,"  said  McGregor;  "  quick,  he  will  be  going 
into  the  house." 

They  were  gulls  for  diving  at  the  ledge ;  but  Rainbow 
Pete  held  out  his  arm,  stopping  them. 

"  Stand  away,"  he  said,  "  I  will  be  going  into  my  house 
with  old  Greyback  here  and  no  other." 

This  arm  was  not  yet  withered  he  had.  No !  They 
stayed  in  their  tracks,  as  we  were  going  up  the  ledge. 

The  door  was  open  of  that  house ;  the  stringed  instru- 
ment was  laid  against  it.  Ay,  the  strings  were  hum- 
ming still,  the  song  was  spinning  round  like  a  leaf  in  the 
cavern  of  it ;  but  the  black  Italian  was  inside. 

Yes,  he  had  gone  before  into  the  chamber  where  she 
was  lying,  with  his  beautiful  smile. 

The  door  here  was  open.  Look,  by  candle-light  I  saw 
her  lying  in  a  red  blanket,  staring  at  the  notable  singer. 
Yes,  I  saw  the  bottles  containing  odors  standing  in  a 
row.  There  was  scent  in  the  room.  Now  she  closed 
her  .eyes,  this  prairie  woman,  lying  under  him  like  death. 
My  friend,  there  is  no  doubt  she  was  beautiful  upon  the 
pillow  without  the  aid  of  scented  bottles. 

Heh !  I  felt  him  quiver,  this  great  sailor,  when  he  saw 
Pal  Yachy  standing  there,  but  I  put  my  arms  about  him 
whispering  to  him  to  wait.  It  was  dark  where  we  were, 
there  was  a  light  from  the  stove  only. 

Oh  my,  there  the  dark  Italian  was  glittering  and  heav- 
ing; he  went  holding  in  his  fist  a  canvas  sack  stamped 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  323 

by  the  Government,  containing  the  proper  weight  of  gold. 

"  This  is  his  weight  in  gold,''  he  said,  and  there  he  laid 
it  at  her  knees.  Still  her  eyes  were  closed  against  that 
demon  of  a  singer,  as  he  went  saying,  "  But  now  my 
dear  one,  there  must  be  no  more  talk  of  husbands.  Ha ! 
ha !  they  are  hke  smoke,  these  husbands.  When  it  has 
drifted,  there  must  be  new  fire.  So  they  say  in  my 
country." 

She  lay,  not  speaking  to  him,  with  the  sack  of  gold 
heavy  against  her  knees. 

"  Is  this  plain  ?  "  said  that  Italian.  Look  now.  Rain- 
bow Pete  is  in  his  very  shadow.  Ay,  in  the  shadow  of 
this  man  who  had  fashioned  him  like  a  rainbow. 

"  This  is  a  great  sum,"  said  Pal  Yachy,  never  looking 
behind  him.  "  To  this  must  be  added  the  silence  of  one 
day  in  the  valley." 

"  The  silence,"  she  went  whispering,  "  the  silence." 

Ha!  ha!  this  was  not  so  dangerous  as  song.  She  was 
leaning  on  her  elbow,  clutching  the  red  blanket  to  her 
throat,  with  her  long  fingers  twisting  at  the  bag.  Now 
my  heart  stumbled.  Oh  now,  I  thought,  the  gold  is  heavy 
against  her;  this  is  a  misfortunate  time  to  be  forsaking 
her  husband,  isn't  it.^  Look,  the  shadow  was  deeper  in 
the  cheek  of  this  sailor.  He  saw  nothing,  I  fancied,  but 
the  gold  lying  on  the  blanket. 

What  next  I  knew  ?  Here  was  McGregor  in  his  yellow 
skull,  whispering, 

"  Is  this  the  gold  then  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow  ? 
This  is  fool's  gold  where  the  heart  is  concerned." 

Then,  my  friend,  she  threw  it  clear  of  the  bed.  Ay! 
I  heard  it  falling  on  the  ledge  there,  but  at  this  time  she 
did  not  know  that  Rainbow  Pete  was  in  the  room. 

When  she  had  thrown  it,  then  she  saw  him,  standing 
behind  that  demon  of  a  singer.  Her  eyes  were  strange 
then.  By  the  expression  of  her  eyes  Pal  Yachy  saw 
that  he  was  doomed.     He  was  like  a  frozen  man. 

"  Wait  now,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  "  am  I  in  my  house 
here?" 


324  RAINBOW  PETE 

"Am  I  not  your  wife?"  cried  the  dark  woman  from 
Regina. 

Oh,  the  pleasant  sailor.     The  song  had  touched  him. 

"  Look  now,"  he  said  to  Pal  Yachy,  "  you  made  a  rain-» 
bow  of  me  in  the  beginning.  Do  you  bring  gold  here  now 
to  plant  at  my  feet,  generous  man  ?  " 

My,  my,  this  fantastic  Italian  knew  that  words  were 
wasted  now.  He  was  like  a  snake  with  his  sting.  But 
Rainbow  Pete  was  not  an  easy  man.  He  broke  the  arm 
with  one  twist,  look,  the  knife  went  spinning  on  the  ledge. 
And  at  this  moment  the  blasting  in  the  rock  began  again 
below  the  ledge.  They  were  at  it  again,  monkeying  with 
powder.  Oh,  it  was  death  they  were  speaking  to  down 
there.  It  was  like  a  battle  between  giants  going  on,  there 
were  thunders  and  red  gleams  in  the  black  valley ;  and  the 
candle-flame  went  shivering  with  the  great  noises. 

"  Here,"  said  Rainbow  Pete,  "  I  will  scatter  you  like 
the  rocks  of  the  valley." 

Oh,  the  righteous  man.  Isn't  it  a  strange  considera- 
tion, the  voice  of  Pal  Yachy  moving  this  crooked  sailor 
to  good  deeds  ?  Ay !  He  was  a  noble  man,  hurling  the 
Italian  from  the  house  by  his  ears.  Oh,  it's  a  circum- 
stance to  be  puzzling  over.  He  threw  the  gold  after  him. 
Ay,  the  gold  after  —  like  dirt;  and  here  the  clothes  hung 
loose  on  his  own  body  where  he  had  been  starving  in  the 
search  for  bags  like  that. 

Now,  as  he  went  kneeling  by  his  wife,  he  discovered 
his  son,  by  the  crowing  under  the  blanket. 

"  Look  here  at  the  little  nipper,  old  Greyback,"  he  said, 
"  come  a  little  way  into  the  room.  Look  now,  at  the  fat 
back  for  putting  a  little  palm-tree  on,  while  he  is  young. 
This  is  truth,  old  fellow,  here  is  true  gold  lying  at  the 
foot  of  the  rainbow,  according  to  the  prophecy." 

Our  old  friend  stopped  to  breathe  and  blink. 

"  He  had  staked  this  claim  but  he  had  never  worked  it." 
he  said  solemnly.  But  isn't  it  strange,  the  same  man 
who  had  been  fashioning  him  like  a  rainbow,  should  be 


RICHARD  MATTHEWS  HALLET  325 

pointing  out  the  gold  to  him.     Oh,  there's  no  doubt  Pal 
Yachy  was  defeated  in  the  end  by  his  own  voice  — 

He  went  away  that  night,  leaving  all  to  the  sub-con- 
tractors. Heh !  He  was  not  seen  on  Mushrat  again. 
Still  he  had  a  remarkable  voice.  Many  times  afterward  I 
have  heard  Rainbow  Pete  playing  on  his  flute  —  this  is  in 
the  evening  when  the  ledge  is  quiet  —  but  this  is  not  the 
same  thing.  No,  no,  he  could  never  bewitch  her  with 
his  music,  she  must  love  him  for  his  intention  only,  to  be 
charming  her.     Ay!     This  is  safer. 


GET  READY  THE  WREATHS ' 

By  FANNIE  HURST 

From  The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine 

WHERE  St.  Louis  begins  to  peter  out  into  brick-  and 
limestone-kilns  and  great  scars  of  unworked  and 
overworked  quarries,  the  first  and  more  unpretentious  of 
its  suburbs  take  up  —  Benson,  Maplehurst,  and  Ridge- 
way  Heights  intervening  with  one-story  brick  cottages 
and  two-story  packing-cases  —  between  the  smoke  oi 
the  city  and  the  carefully  parked  Queen  Anne  quietude 
of  Glenwood  and  Croton  Grove. 

Over  Benson  hangs  a  white  haze  of  limestone,  gritty 
with  train  and  foundry  smoke.  At  night,  the  lime-kilns, 
spotted  with  white  deposits,  burn  redly,  showing  through 
their  open  doors  like  great,  inflamed  diphtheretic  throats, 
tongues  of  flame  bursting  and  licking  out. 

Winchester  Road,  which  runs  out  from  the  heart  of 
the  city  to  string  these  towns  together,  is  paved  with 
brick,  and  its  traffic,  for  the  most  part,  is  the  great  tin- 
tired  dump-carts  of  the  quarries  and  steel  interurban 
electric  cars,  which  hum  so  heavily  that  even  the  windows 
of  outlying  cottages  titillate. 

For  blocks,  from  Benson  to  Maplehurst  and  from 
Maplehurst  to  Ridgeway  Heights,  Winchester  Road  re- 
peats itself  in  terms  of  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the  corner 
saloon.  A  feed  store.  A  monument-  and  stone-cutter. 
A  confectioner.  A  general-merchandise  store,  with  a 
glass  case  of  men's  collars  outside  the  entrance.  The 
butcher,  the  baker,  the  corner  saloon. 

At  Benson,  where  this  highway  cuts  through,  the  city, 

1  Copyright,  19 1 7,  by  The  International  Magazine  Company.  Copyright, 
1918,   by   Fannie   Hurst. 

326 


FANNIE  HURST  327 

wreathed  in  smoke,  and  a  great  oceanic  stretch  of  roofs 
are  in  easy  view,  ahd  at  closer  range,  an  outlying  section 
of  public  asylums  for  the  city's  discard  of  its  debility  and 
its  senility. 

Jutting  a  story  above  the  one-storied  march  of  Win- 
chester Road,  The  Convenience  Merchandise  Corner, 
Benson,  overlooks,  from  the  southeast  up-stairs  window, 
a  remote  view  of  the  City  Hospital,  the  Ferris  wheel  of 
an  amusement-park,  and  on  clear  days,  the  oceanic  waves 
of  roof.  Below,  within  the  store,  that  view  is  entirely 
obliterated  by  a  brace  of  shelves  built  across  the  corre- 
sponding window  and  brilliantly  stacked  with  ribbons  of 
a  score  of  colors  and  as  many  widths.  A  considerable 
flow  of  daylight  thus  diverted.  The  Convenience  Merchan- 
dise Corner,  even  of  early  afternoon,  fades  out  into  half- 
discernible  corners ;  a  rear-wall  display  of  overalls  and 
striped  denim  coats  crowded  back  into  indefinitude,  the 
haberdashery  counter,  with  a  giant  gilt  shirt-stud  sus- 
pended above,  hardly  more  outstanding. 

Even  the  notions  and  dry-goods,  flanking  the  right  wall 
in  stacks  and  bolts,  merge  into  blur,  the  outline  of  a 
white-sateen  and  corseted  woman's  torso  surmounting  the 
top-most  of  the  shelves  with  bold  curvature. 

With  spring  sunshine  even  hot  against  the  steel  rails  of 
Winchester  Road,  and  awnings  drawn  against  its  inroads 
into  the  window  display,  Mrs.  Shila  Coblenz,  routing 
gloom,  reached  up  tiptoe  across  the  haberdashery  counter 
for  the  suspended  chain  of  a  cluster  of  bulbs,  the  red  of 
exertion  rising  up  the  taut  line  of  throat  and  lifted  chin. 

"  A  little  light  on  the  subject,  Milt." 

"  Let  me,  Mrs.  C." 

Facing  her  from  the  outer  side  of  the  counter.  Mr. 
Milton  Bauer  stretched  also,  his  well-pressed,  pin-checked 
coat  crawling  up. 

All  things  swam  out  into  the  glow.  The  great  sus- 
pended stud;  the  background  of  shelves  and  boxes;  the 
.scissors-like  overalls  against  the  wall ;  a  clothes-line  of 
children's    factory-made   print    frocks;   a   center-bin   of 


328     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

women's  uiitrimmed  hats ;  a  headless  dummy  beside  the 
door,  enveloped  in  a  long-sleeved  gingham  apron. 

Beneath  the  dome  of  the  wooden  stud,  Mrs.  Shila 
Coblenz,  of  not  too  fulsome  but  the  hour-glass  propor- 
tions of  two  decades  ago,  smiled,  her  black  eyes,  ever  so 
quick  to  dart,  receding  slightly  as  the  cheeks  lifted. 

"  Two  twenty-five.  Milt,  for  those  ribbed  assorted  sizes 
and  reen  forced  heels.  Leave  or  take.  Bergdorff  & 
Sloan  will  quote  me  the  whole  mill  at  that  price." 

With  his  chest  across  the  counter  and  legs  out  violently 
behind,  Mr.  Bauer  flung  up  a  glance  from  his  order-pad. 

"  Have  a  heart,  Mrs.  C.  I'm  getting  two  forty  for  that 
stocking  from  every  house  in  town.  The  factory  can't 
turn  out  the  orders  fast  enough  at  that  price.  An  up- 
to-date  woman  like  you  mustn't  make  a  noise  like  before 
the  war." 

"  Leave  or  take." 

"  You  could  shave  an  egg,"  he  said. 

"  And  rush  up  those  printed  lawns.  There  was  two 
in  this  morning,  sniffing  around  for  spring  dimities." 

"  Any  cotton  goods  ?  Next  month  this  time,  you'll  be 
paying  an  advance  of  four  cents  on  percales." 

"  Stocked." 

"  Can't  tempt  you  with  them  wash  silks.  Mrs.  C.  ? 
Neatest  little  article  on  the  market  to-day." 

"  No  demand.  They  finger  it  up,  and  then  buy  the 
cotton  stufifs.  Every  time  I  forget  my  trade  hacks  rock 
instead  of  clips  bonds  for  its  spending-money.  I  get 
stung." 

"  This  here  wash  silk,  Mrs.  C,  would  — " 

"  Send  me  up  a  dress-pattern  oflF  this  coral-pink  sample 
for  Selene." 

"  This  here  dark  mulberry,  Mrs.  C,  would  suit  you 
something  immense." 

"  That'll  be  about  all." 

He  flopped  shut  his  book,  snapping  a  rubber  band  about 
it  and  inserting  it  in  an  inner  coat  pocket. 

"  You    ought   to    stick   to   them    dark,    wmy    shades, 


FANNIE  HURST  329 

Mrs.  C.  With  your  coloring  and  black  hair  and  eyes, 
they  bring  you  out  like  a  Gipsy.  Never  seen  you  look 
better  than  at  the  Y.  M.  H.  A.  entertainment." 

Quick  color  flowed  down  her  open  throat  and  into  her 
shirtwaist.  It  was  as  if  the  platitude  merged  with  the 
very  corpuscles  of  a  blush  that  sank  down  into  thirsty 
soil. 

"  You  boys,"  she  said,  "  come  out  here  and  throw  in  a 
jolly  with  every  bill  of  goods.  I'll  take  a  good  fat  dis- 
count instead." 

"  Fact.  Never  seen  you  look  better.  When  you  got 
out  on  the  floor  in  that  stamp-your-foot  kind  of  dance 
with  old  man  Shulof,  your  hand  on  your  hip  and  your 
head  jerking  it  up,  there  wasn't  a  girl  on  the  floor,  your 
own  daughter  included,  could  touch  you,  and  I'm  giving 
it  to  you  straight." 

"  That  old  thing!  It's  a  Russian  folk-dance  my  mother 
taught  me  the  first  year  we  were  in  this  country.  I  was 
three  years  old  then,  and,  when  she  got  just  crazy  with 
homesickness,  we  used  to  dance  it  to  each  other  evenings 
on  the  kitchen  floor." 

"  Say,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Guess" 
C^an  t. 

"  Hammerstein  is  bringing  over  the  crowned  heads  of 
Europe  for  vaudeville." 

Mrs.  Coblenz  moved  back  a  step,  her  mouth  falling 
open. 

"  Why  —  Milton  Bauer  —  in  the  old  country  a  man 
could  be  strung  up  for  saying  less  than  that !  " 

"  That  didn't  get  across.  Try  another.  A  French- 
man and  his  wife  were  traveling  in  Russia,  and  — " 

"If  —  if  you  had  an  old  mother  like  mine  upstairs, 
Milton,  eating  out  her  heart  and  her  days  and  her  weeks 
and  her  months  over  a  husband's  grave  somewhere  in 
Siberia  and  a  son's  grave  somewhere  in  KiShinef,  you 
wouldn't  see  the  joke,  neither." 


330     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

Mr.  Bauer  executed  a  self-administered  pat  sharply 
against  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  Keeper,"  he  said,  "  put  me  in  the  brain-ward.  I  — 
I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  C,  so  help  me !  Didn't  mean  to.  How 
is  your  mother,  Mrs.  C.  ?  Seems  to  me,  at  the  dance  the 
other  night,  Selene  said  she  was  fine  and  dandy." 

"  Selene  ain't  the  best  judge  of  her  poor  old  grand- 
mother. It's  hard  for  a  young  girl  to  have  patience  for 
old  age  sitting  and  chewing  all  day  over  the  past.  It's 
right  pitiful  the  way  her  grandmother  knows  it,  too,  and 
makes  herself  talk  English  all  the  time  to  please  the  child 
and  tries  to  perk  up  for  her.  Selene,  thank  God,  ain't 
suffered,  and  can't  sympathize !  " 

"  What's  ailing  her,  Mrs.  C.  ?  I  kinda  miss  seeing  the 
old  lady  sitting  down  here  in  the  store." 

"  It's  the  last  year  or  so.  Milt.  Just  lik^  all  of  a  sud- 
den, a  woman  as  active  as  mamma  always  was,  her  health 
and  —  her  mind  kind  of  went  off  with  a  pop." 

"Thu!     Thu!" 

"  Doctor  says  with  care  she  can  live  for  years,  but  — 
but  it  seems  terrible  the  way  her  —  poor  mind  keeps  skip- 
ping back.  Past  all  these  thirty  years  in  America  to  — 
even  weeks  before  I  was  born.  The  night  they  —  took 
my  father  off  to  Siberia,  with  his  bare  feet  in  the  snow 
—  for  distributing  papers  they  found  on  him  —  papers 
that  used  the  word  '  svohoda ' — '  freedom.'  And  the 
time,  ten  years  later  —  they  shot  down  my  brother  right 
in  front  of  her  for  —  the  same  reason.  She  keeps  living 
it  over  —  living  it  over  till  I  —  could  die." 

"  Say,  ain't  that  just  a  shame,  though !  " 

"  Living  it,  and  living  it,  and  living  it !  The  night  with 
me,  a  heavy  three-year-old,  in  her  arms  that  she  got  us  to 
the  border,  dragging  a  pack  of  linens  with  her!  The 
night  my  father's  feet  were  bleeding  in  the  snow,  when 
they  took  him !  How  with  me  a  kid  in  the  crib,  my  — 
my  brother's  face  was  crushed  in  —  with  a  heel  and  a 
spur  —  all  night,  sometimes,  she  cries  in  her  sleep  —  beg- 
ging to  go  back  to  find  the  graves.     All  day  she  sits  mak- 


FANNIE  HURST  331 

ing  raffia  wreaths  to  take  back  —  making  wreaths  — 
making  wreaths !  " 

"  Say,  ain't  that  tough !  " 

"  It's  a  godsend  she's  got  the  eyes  to  do  it.  It's  won- 
derful the  way  she  reads  —  in  EngHsh,  too.  There  ain't 
a  daily  she  misses.  Without  them  and  the  wreaths  —  I 
dunno  —  I  just  dunno.  Is  —  is  it  any  wonder,  Milt,  I  — 
I  can't  see  the  joke?  " 

"  My  God,  no  !  " 

"  I'll  get  her  back,  though." 

"  Why,  you  —  she  can't  get  back  there,  Mrs.  C." 

"  There's  a  way.  Nobody  can  tell  me  there's  not.  Be- 
fore the  war  —  before  she  got  like  this,  seven  hundred 
dollars  would  have  done  it  for  both  of  us  —  and  it  will 
again,  after  the  war.  She's  got  the  bank-book,  and  every 
week  that  I  can  squeeze  out  above  expenses,  she  sees  the 
entry  for  herself.  I'll  get  her  back.  There's  a  way  lying 
around  somewhere.  God  knows  why  she  should  eat  out 
her  heart  to  go  back  —  but  she  wants  it.  God,  how  she 
wants  it !  " 

"  Poor  old  dame !  " 

"  You  boys  guy  me  with  my  close-fisted  buying  these 
last  two  years.  It's  up  to  me,  Milt,  to  squeeze  this  old 
shebang  dry.  There's  not  much  more  than  a  living  in  it 
at  best,  and  now  with  Selene  grown  up  and  naturally 
wanting  to  have  it  like  other  girls,  it  ain't  always  easy 
to  see  my  way  clear.  But  I'll  do  it,  if  I  got  to  trust  the 
store  for  a  year  to  a  child  like  Selene.     I'll  get  her  back." 

"  You  can  call  on  me,  Mrs.  C.,  to  keep  my  eye  on 
things  while  you're  gone." 

"  You  boys  are  one  crowd  of  true  blues,  all  right. 
There  ain't  a  city  salesman  comes  out  here  I  wouldn't 
trust  to  the  limit." 

"  You  just  try  me  out." 

"  Why,  just  to  show  you  how  a  woman  don't  know 
how  many  real  friends  she  has  got,  why  —  even  Mark 
Haas,  of  the  Mound  City  Silk  Company,  a  firm  I  don't 
do  two  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  business  with  a  year. 


332     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him  the  other  night  at  the 
Y.  M.  H.  A.,  a  man  you  know  for  yourself  just  comes 
here  to  be  sociable  with  the  trade." 

"  Fine  fellow,  Mark  Haas  !  " 

"  '  When  the  time  comes,  Mrs.  Coblenz,'  he  says,  *  that 
you  want  to  make  that  trip,  just  you  let  me  know.  Be- 
fore the  war  there  wasn't  a  year  I  didn't  cross  the  water 
twice,  maybe  three  times,  for  the  firm.  I  don't  know 
there's  much  I  can  do ;  it  ain't  so  easy  to  arrange  for  Rus- 
sia, but,  just  the  same,  you  let  me  know  when  you're  ready 
to  make  that  trip.'  Just  like  that  he  said  it.  That  from 
Mark  Haas !  " 

"  And  a  man  like  Haas  don't  talk  that  way  if  he  don't 
mean  it." 

"  Mind  you,  not  a  hundred  dollars  a  year  business  with 
him.     I  haven't  got  the  demands  for  silks." 

"  That  wash  silk  f  m  telling  you  about  though,  Mrs.  C, 
does  up  like  a  — " 

"  There's  ma  thumping  with  the  poker  on  the  upstairs 
floor.  When  it's  closing-time,  she  begins  to  get  restless. 
I  —  I  wish  Selene  would  come  in.  She  went  out  with 
Lester  Goldmark  in  his  little  flivver,  and  I  get  nervous 
about  automobiles." 

Mr.  Bauer  slid  an  open-face  watch  from  his  waistcoat. 

*'  Good  Lord,  five-forty,  and  I've  just  got  time  to  sell 
the  Maplehurst  Emporium  a  bill  of  goods !  " 

"  Good-night,  Milt ;  and  mind  you  put  up  that  order 
of  assorted  neckwear  yourself.  Greens  in  ready-tieds 
are  good  sellers  for  this  time  of  the  year,  and  put  in  some 
reds  and  purples  for  the  teamsters." 

"  No  sooner  said  than  done." 

"  And  come  out  for  supper  some  Sunday  night.  Milt. 
It  does  mamma  good  to  have  young  people  around." 

"  I'm  yours." 

"  Good-night,  Milt." 

He  reached  across  the  counter,  placing  his  hand  over 
hers. 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  C.,"  he  said,  a  note  lower  in  his 


FANNIE  HURST  333 

throat;  "and  remember,  that  call-on-me  stuff  wasn't  just 
conversation." 

"  Good-night,  Milt,"  said  Mrs.  Coblenz,  a  coating  of 
husk  over  her  own  voice  and  shding  her  hand  out  from 
beneath,  to  top  his.     "  You  —  you're  all  right !  " 

Upstairs,  in  a  too  tufted  and  too  crowded  room  di- 
rectly over  the  frontal  half  of  the  store,  the  window 
overlooking  the  remote  sea  of  city  was  turning  taupe, 
the  dusk  of  early  spring,  which  is  faintly  tinged  with 
violet,  invading.  Beside  the  stove,  a  base-burner  with 
faint  fire  showing  through  its  mica,  the  identity  of  her 
figure  merged  with  the  fat  upholstery  of  the  chair,  ex- 
cept where  the  faint  pink  through  the  mica  lighted  up 
old  flesh,  Mrs.  Miriam  Horowitz,  full  of  years  and  senile 
with  them,  wove  with  grasses,  the  ecru  of  her  own  skin, 
wreaths  that  had  mounted  to  a  great  stack  in  a  bedroom 
cupboard. 

A  clock,  with  a  little  wheeze  and  burring  attached  to 
each  chime,  rang  six,  and  upon  it,  Mrs.  Coblenz,  breathing 
from  a  climb,  opened  the  door. 

"  Ma,  why  didn't  you  rap  for  Katie  to  come  up  and  light 
the  gas  ?     You'll  ruin  your  eyes,  dearie." 

She  found  out  a  match,  immediately  lighting  two  jets 
of  a  center-chandelier,  turning  them  down  from  singing, 
drawing  the  shades  of  the  two  front  and  the  southeast 
windows,  stooping  over  the  upholstered  chair  to  imprint 
a  light  kiss. 

"  A  fine  day,  mamma.  There'll  be  an  entry  this  week. 
Fifty  dollars  and  thirteen  cents  and  another  call  for 
garden  implements.  I  think  I'll  lay  in  a  hardware  line 
after  we  —  we  get  back.  I  can  use  the  lower  shelf  of 
the  china-table,  eh,  ma  ?  " 

Mrs.  Horowitz,  whose  face,  the  color  of  old  linen  in 
the  yellowing,  emerged  rather  startling  from  the  still 
black  hair  strained  back  from  it,  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
turning  her  profile  against  the  upholstered  back,  half  a 
wreath  and  a  trail  of  raffia  sliding  to  the  floor.     It  was  as 


334     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

if  age  had  sapped  from  beneath  the  skin,  so  that  every 
curve  had  collapsed  to  bagginess,  the  cheeks  and  the 
underchin  sagging  with  too  much  skin.  Even  the  hands 
were  crinkled  like  too  large  gloves,  a  wide,  curiously 
etched  marriage  band  hanging  loosely  from  the  third 
finger. 

Mrs.  Coblenz  stooped,  recovering  the  wreath. 

"  Say,  mamma,  this  one  is  a  beauty !  That's  a  new 
weave,  ain't  it?  Here,  work  some  more,  dearie  —  till 
Selene  comes  with  your  evening  papers." 

With  her  profile  still  to  the  chair-back,  a  tear  oozed 
down  the  corrugated  surface  of  Mrs.  Horowitz's  cheek. 
Another. 

"  Now,  mamma !     Now,  mamma !  " 

"  I  got  a  heaviness  —  here  —  inside.  I  got  a  heavi- 
ness — " 

Mrs.  Coblenz  slid  down  to  her  knees  beside  the  chair. 

"  Now,  mamma ;  shame  on  my  little  mamma !  Is  that 
the  way  to  act  when  Shila  comes  up  after  a  good  day? 
Ain't  we  got  just  lots  to  be  thankful  for,  the  business 
growing  and  the  bank-book  growing,  and  our  Selene  on 
top  ?     Shame  on  mamma !  " 

"  I  got  a  heaviness  —  here  —  inside  —  here." 

Mrs.  Coblenz  reached  up  for  the  old  hand,  patting  it. 

"  It's  nothing,  mamma  —  a  little  nervousness." 

"  I'm  an  old  woman.     I  — " 

"  And  just  think,  Shila's  mamma,  Mark  Haas  is  going 
to  get  us  letters  and  passports  and  — " 

"  My  son  —  my  boy  —  his  father  before  him  — " 

"  Mamma  —  mamma,  please  don't  let  a  spell  come  on ! 
It's  all  right.  Shila's  going  to  fix  it.  Any  day  now, 
maybe  — " 

"  You'm  a  good  girl.  You'm  ■  a  good  girl,  Shila." 
Tears  were  coursing  down  to  a  mouth  that  was  constantly 
wry  with  the  taste  of  them. 

"  And  you're  a  good  mother,  mamma.  Nobody  knows 
better  than  me  how  good." 

"  You'm  a  good  girl,  Shila." 


FANNIE  HURST  335 

"  I  was  thinking  last  night,  mamma,  waiting  up  for 
Selene  —  just  thinking  how  all  the  good  you've  done 
ought  to  keep  your  mind  off  the  spells,  dearie." 

"  My  son  — " 

"  Why,  a  woman  with  as  much  good  to  remember  as 
you've  got  oughtn't  to  have  time  for  spells.  I  got  to 
thinking  about  Coblenz  to-day,  mamma,  how  —  you 
never  did  want  him,  and  when  I  —  I  went  and  did  it  any- 
way, and  made  my  mistake,  you  stood  by  me  to  —  to  the 
day  he  died.  Never  throwing  anything  up  to  me ! 
Never  nothing  but  my  good  little  mother,  working  her 
hands  to  the  bone  after  he  got  us  out  here  to  help  meet 
the  debts  he  left  us.  Ain't  that  a  satisfaction  for  you  to 
be  able  to  sit  and  think,  mamma,  how  you  helped  — " 

"  His  feet  —  blood  from  my  heart  in  the  snow  —  blood 
from  my  heart !  " 

"  The  past  is  gone,  darling.  What's  the  use  tearing 
yourself  to  pieces  with  it?  Them  years  in  New  York, 
when  it  was  a  fight  even  for  bread,  and  them  years  here 
trying  to  raise  Selene  and  get  the  business  on  a  footing, 
you  didn't  have  time  to  brood  then,  mamma.  That's 
why,  dearie,  if  only  you'll  keep  yourself  bus}-  with  some- 
thing —  the  wreaths  —  the  — " 

"  His  feet  —  blood  from  my — " 

"  But  I'm  going  to  take  you  back,  mamma.  To  papa's 
grave.  To  Aylorff's.  But  don't  eat  your  heart  out  until 
it  comes,  darling.  I'm  going  to  take  you  back,  mamma, 
with  every  wreath  in  the  stack ;  only,  you  mustn't  eat  out 
your  heart  in  spells.    You  mustn't,  mamma ;  you  mustn't." 

Sobs  rumbled  up  through  Mrs.  Horowitz,  which  her 
hand  to  her  mouth  tried  to  constrict. 

"  For  his  people  he  died.  The  papers  —  I  begged  he 
should  burn  them  —  he  couldn't  —  I  begged  he  should 
keep  in  his  hate  —  he  couldn't  —  in  the  square  he  talked 
it  —  the  soldiers  —  he  died  for  his  people  —  they  got  him 
—  the  soldiers  —  his  feet  in  the  snow  when  they  took 
him  —  the  blood  in  the  snow  —  O  my  God  —  my  — 
God  I" 


336     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

"  Mamma,  darling,  please  don't  go  over  it  all  again. 
What's  the  use  making  yourself  sick?     Please!  " 

She  was  well  forward  in  her  chair  now,  winding  her 
dry  hands  one  over  the  other  with  a  small  rotary  mo- 
tion. 

"  I  was  rocking  —  Shila-baby  in  my  lap  —  stirring  on 
the  fire  black  lentils  for  my  boy  —  black  lentils  —  he — " 

"Mamma!" 

"  My  boy.     Like  his  father  before  him.     My — " 

"  Mamma,  please  1  Selene  is  coming  any  minute  now. 
You  know  how  she  hates  it.  Don't  let  yourself  think 
back,  mamma.  A  little  will-power,  the  doctor  says,  is  all 
you  need.  Think  of  to-morrow,  mamma ;  maybe,  if  you 
want,  you  can  come  down  and  sit  in  the  store  awhile 
and—" 

"  I  was  rocking.     O  my  God,  I  was  rocking,  and  — " 

"  Don't  get  to  it  —  mamma,  please  !  Don't  rock  your- 
self that  way!  You'll  get  yourself  dizzv.  Don't,  ma; 
don't !  " 

"  Outside  —  my  boy  —  the  holler  —  O  God,  in  my  ears 
all  mv  life!  My  bov  —  the  papers  —  the  swords  — 
Aylorff  — Aylorfif— "  ' 

"  Shh-h-h  —  mamma  — " 

"  It  came  through  his  heart  out  the  back  —  a  blade 
with  two  sides  —  out  the  back  when  I  opened  the  door  — 
the  spur  in  his  face  when  he  fell  —  Shila  —  the  spur  in 
his  face  —  the  beautiful  face  of  my  boy  —  my  Aylorff  — 
my  husband  before  him  —  that  died  to  make  free !  "  And 
fell  back,  bathed  in  the  sweat  of  the  terrific  hiccoughing 
of  sobs. 

"  Mamma,  mamma  —  my  God !  What  shall  we  do  ? 
These  spells  I  You'll  kill  yourself,  darling.  I'm  going 
to  take  you  back,  dearie  —  ain't  that  enough  ?  I  promise. 
I  promise.  You  mustn't,  mamma !  These  spells  —  they 
ain't  good  for  a  young  girl  like  Selene  to  hear.  Mamma, 
ain't  you  got  your  own  Shila  —  your  own  Selene?  Ain't 
that  something?     Ain't  it?    Ain't  it?" 

Large  drops  of  sweat  had  come  out  and  a  state  of  ex- 


FANNIE  HURST  337 

haustion  that  swept  completely  over,  prostrating  the  hud- 
dled form  in  the  chair. 

"  Bed  —  my  bed  !  " 

With  her  arms  twined  about  the  immediately  support- 
ing form  of  her  daughter,  her  entire  weight  relaxed,  and 
footsteps  that  dragged  without  lift,  one  after  the  other, 
Mrs.  Horowitz  groped  out,  one  hand  feeling  in  advance, 
into  the  gloom  of  a  room  adjoining. 

"  Rest !     O  my  God,  rest !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mamma ;  lean  on  me." 

"  My  —  bed." 

"  Yes,  yes,  darling." 

"Bed." 

Her  voice  had  died  now  to  a  whimper  that  lay  on  the 
room  after  she  had  passed  out  of  it. 

When  Selene  Coblenz,  with  a  gust  that  swept  the 
room,  sucking  the  lace  curtains  back  against  the  panes, 
flung  open  the  door  upon  that  chromatic  scene,  the  two 
jets  of  gas  were  singing  softly  into  its  silence,  and,  within 
the  nickel-trimmed  base-burner,  the  pink  mica  had  cooled 
to  gray.  Sweeping  open  that  door,  she  closed  it  softly, 
standing  for  the  moment  against  it,  her  hand  crossed  in 
back  and  on  the  knob.  It  was  as  if  standing  there  with 
her  head  cocked  and  beneath  a  shadowy  blue  sailor-hat, 
a  smile  coming  out,  something  within  her  was  playing, 
sweetly  insistent  to  be  heard.  Philomela,  at  the  first 
sound  of  her  nightingale  self,  must  have  stood  thus, 
trembling  with  melody.  Opposite  her,  above  the  crowded 
mantelpiece  and  surmounted  by  a  rafifia  wreath,  the  en- 
larged-crayon gaze  of  her  deceased  maternal  grandparent, 
abetted  by  a  horrible  device  of  photography,  followed  her, 
his  eyes  focusing  the  entire  room  at  a  glance.  Impervi- 
ous to  that  scrutiny,  Miss  Coblenz  moved  a  tiptoe  step 
or  two  further  into  the  room,  lifting  ofif  her  hat,  staring 
and  smiling  through  a  three-shelved  cabinet  of  knick- 
knacks  at  what  she  saw  far  beyond.  Beneath  the  two 
jets,  high  lights  in  her  hair  came  out,  bronze  showing 


338     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

through  the  brown  waves  and  the  patches  of  curls 
brought  out  over  her  cheeks. 

In  her  dark-blue  dress  with  the  row  of  silver  buttons 
down  what  was  hip  before  the  hipless  age,  the  chest  suf- 
ficiently concave  and  the  silhouette  a  mere  stroke  of  a 
hard  pencil,  Miss  Selene  Coblenz  measured  up  and  down 
to  America's  Venus  de  Milo,  whose  chief  curvature  is  of 
the  spine.  Slim-etched,  and  that  slimness  enhanced  by 
a  conscious  kind  of  collapse  beneath  the  blue-silk  girdle 
that  reached  up  halfway  to  her  throat,  hers  were  those 
proportions  which  strong  women,  eschewing  the  sweet- 
meat, would  earn  by  the  sweat  of  the  Turkish  bath. 

When  Miss  Coblenz  caught  her  eye  in  the  square  of 
mirror  above  the  mantelpiece,  her  hands  flew  to  her 
cheeks  to  feel  of  their  redness.  They  were  soft  cheeks, 
smooth  with  the  pollen  of  youth,  and  hands  still  casing 
them,  she  moved  another  step  toward  the  portiered  door. 

"  Mamma !  " 

Mrs.  Coblenz  emerged  immediately,  finger  up  for  si- 
lence, kissing  her  daughter  on  the  little  spray  of  cheek- 
curls. 

"  Shh-h-h !     Gramaw  just  had  a  terrible  spell." 

She  dropped  down  into  the  upholstered  chair  beside  the 
base-burner,  the  pink  and  moisture  of  exertion  out  in  her 
face,  took  to  fanning  herself  with  the  end  of  a  face-towel 
flung  across  her  arm. 

"  Poor  gramaw  !  "  she  said.     "  Poor  gramaw  !  " 

Miss  Coblenz  sat  down* on  the  edge  of  a  slim,  home- 
gilded  chair,  and  took  to  gathering  the  blue-silk  dress  into 
little  plaits  at  her  knee. 

"Of  course  —  if  you  don't  want  to  know  where  I've 
been  —  or  anything  — " 

Mrs.  Coblenz  jerked  herself  to  the  moment. 

"  Did  mamma's  girl  have  a  good  time?  Look  at  your 
dress  all  dusty !  You  oughtn't  to  wear  you  best  in  that 
little  flivver." 

Suddenly  Miss  Coblenz  raised  her  eyes,  her  red  mouth 
bunched,  her  eyes  all  iris. 


FANNIE  HURST  339 

"  Of  course  —  if  you  don't  want  to  know  —  any- 
thing." 

At  that  large,  brilliant  gaze,  Mrs.  Coblenz  leaned  for- 
ward, quickened. 

"  Why,  Selene !  " 

"  Well,  why  —  why  don't  you  ask  me  something?  " 

"  Why  I  —  I  dunno,  honey,  did  —  did  you  and  Lester 
have  a  nice  ride  ?  " 

There  hung  a  slight  pause,  and  then  a  swift  moving  and 
crumpling-up  of  Miss  Coblenz  on  the  floor  beside  her 
mother's  knee. 

"  You  know  —  only,  you  won't  a.sk." 

With  her  hand  light  upon  her  daughter's  hair,  Mrs. 
Coblenz  leaned  forward,  her  bosom  rising  to  faster 
breathing. 

"  Why  —  Selene  —  I  why  — " 

"  We  —  we  were  speeding  along  and  —  all  of  a  sud- 
den —  out  of  a  clear  sky  —  he  —  he  popped.  He  wants 
it  in  June  —  so  we  can  make  it  our  honeymoon  to  his 
new  territory  out  in  Oklahoma.  .He  knew  he  was  going 
to  pop,  he  said,  ever  since  the  first  night  he  saw  me  at 
the  Y.  M.  H.  A.  He  says  to  his  uncle  Mark,  the  very 
next  day  in  the  store,  he  says  to  him,  *  Uncle  Mark,'  he 
says,  '  I've  met  the  little  girl.'  He  says  he  thinks  more 
of  my  little  finger  than  all  of  his  regular  crowd  of  girls 
in  town  put  together.  He- wants  to  live  in  one  of  the 
built-in-bed  flats  on  Wasserman  Avenue,  like  all  the 
swell  young  marrieds.  He's  making  twenty-six  hundred 
now,  mamma,  and  if  he  makes  good  in  the  new  Oklahoma 
territory,  his  uncle  Mark  is  —  is  going  to  take  care  of 
him  better.  Ain't  it  like  a  dream,  mamma  —  your  little 
Selene  all  of  a  sudden  in  with  —  the  somebodys?" 

Immediately  tears  were  already  finding  staggering  pro- 
cession down  Mrs.  Coblenz'  face,  her  hovering  arms 
completely  encircling  the  slight  figure  at  her  feet. 

"  My  little  girl !  ^  My  little  Selene  !     My  all !  " 

"  I'll  be  marrying  into  one  of  the  best  families  in  town, 
ma.     A  girl  who  marries  a  nephew  of  Mark  Haas  can 


340     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

hold  up  her  head  with  the  best  of  them.  There's  not  a 
boy  in  town  with  a  better  future  than  Lester.  Like  Les- 
ter says,  everything  his  uncle  Mark  touches  turns  to 
gold,  and  he's  already  touched  Lester.  One  of  the  best 
known  men  on  Washington  Avenue  for  his  blood-uncle, 
and  on  his  poor  dead  father's  side  related  to  the  Katz  & 
Harberger  Harbergers.  Was  I  right,  mamma,  when  I 
said  if  you'd  only  let  me  stop  school,  I'd  show  you  ?  Was 
I  right,  momsie  ?  " 

"  My  baby !     It's  like  I  can't  realize  it.     So  young !  " 

"  He  took  the  measure  of  my  finger,  mamma,  with  a 
piece  of  string.  A  diamond,  he  says,  not  too  flashy,  but 
neat." 

"  We  have  'em,  and  we  suffer  for  'em,  and  we  lose 
em. 

"  He's  going  to  trade  in  the  flivver  for  a  chummy  road- 
ster, and  — " 

"  Oh,  darling,  it's  like  I  can't  bear  it !  " 

At  that,  Miss  Coblenz  sat  back  on  her  tall  wooden 
heels,  mauve  spats  crinkling. 

"  Well,  you're  a  merry  little  future  mother-in-law. 
momsie." 

"  It  ain't  that,  baby.  I'm  happy  that  my  girl  has  got 
herself  up  in  the  world  with  a  fine  upright  boy  like  Les- 
ter; only  —  you  can't  unde'rstand,  babe,  till  you've  got 
something  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood  that  belongs  to 
you,  that  I  —  I  couldn't  feel  anything  except  that  a  piece 
of  my  heart  was  going  if  —  if  it  was  a  king  you  was 
marrying." 

"  Now,  momsie,  it's  not  like  I  was  moving  a  thousand 
miles  away.  You  can  be  glad  I  don't  have  to  go  far,  to 
New  York  or  to  Cleveland,  like  Alma  Yawitz." 

"  I  am  !     I  am  !  " 

"  Uncle  —  Uncle  Mark,  I  guess,  will  furnish  us  upi  like 
he  did  Leon  and  Irma  —  only.  I  don't  want  mahogany  — 
I  want  Circassian  walnut.  He  gave  them  their  flat- 
silver,  too,  Puritan  design,  for  an  engagement  present. 
Think  of   it,   mamma,   me   having   that   stuck-up   Irma 


FANNIE  HURST  341 

Sinsheimer  for  a  relation  !  It  always  made  her  sore  when 
I  got  chums  with  Amy  at  school  and  got  my  nose  in  it 
with  the  Acme  crowd,  and  —  and  she'll  change  her  tune 
now,  I  guess,  me  marrying  her  husband's  second  cousin." 

"  Didn't  Lester  want  to  —  to  come  in  for  a  while, 
Selene,  to  —  to  see  —  me  ?  " 

Sitting  there  on  her  heels.  Miss  Coblenz  looked  away, 
answering  with  her  face  in  profile. 

"  Yes ;  only  —  I  —  well  if  you  want  to  know  it, 
mamma,  it's  no  fun  for  a  girl  to  bring  a  boy  like  Lester 
up  here  in  —  in  this  crazy  room  all  hung  up  with 
gramaw's  wreaths  and  half  the  time  her  sitting  out  there 
in  the  dark  looking  in  at  us  through  the  door  and  talking 
to  herself." 

"  Gramaw's  an  old  — " 

"  Is  —  it  any  wonder  I'm  down  at  Amy's  half  the  time. 
Mow  —  do  you  think  a  girl  feels  to  have  gramaw  keep 
hanging  onto  that  old  black  wig  of  hers  and  not  letting 
me  take  the  crayons  or  wreaths  down  off  the  wall.  In 
Lester's  crowd,  they  don't  know  —  nothing  about  Revo- 
lutionary stuff  and  —  and  persecutions.  Amy's  grand- 
mother don't  even  talk  with  an  accent,  and  Lester  says 
his  grandmother  came  from  Alsace-Lorraine.  That's 
French.  They  think  only  tailors  and  old-clothes  men 
and—" 

"  Selene ! " 

"Well,  they  do.  You  —  you're  all  right,  mamma,  as 
up  to  date  as  any  of  them,  but  how  do  you  think  a  girl 
feels  with  gramaw  always  harping  right  in  front  of  every- 
body the  —  the  way  granpa  was  a  revolutionist  and  was 

—  was  hustled  off  barefooted  to  Siberia  like  —  like  a 
tramp.     And  the  way  she  was  cooking  black  beans  when 

—  my  uncle  —  died.  Other  girls'  grandmothers  don't 
tell  everything  they  know.  Alma  Yawitz's  grandmother 
wears  lorgnettes,  and  you  told  me  yourself  they  came 
from  nearly  the  same  part  of  the  Pale  as  gramaw.  But 
you  don't  hear  them  remembering  it.  Alma  Yawitz  says 
she's   .Alsace-Lorraine   on    both    sides.     People   don't  — 


342     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

tell  everything  they  know.  Anyway  —  where  a  girl's  got 
herself  as  far  as  I  have." 

Through  sobs  that  rocked  her,  Mrs.  Coblenz  looked 
down  upon  her  daughter. 

"  Your  poor  old  grandmother  don't  deserve  that  from 
you !  In  her  day,  she  worked  her  hands  to  the  bone  for 
you.  With  —  the  kind  of  father  you  had,  we  —  we 
might  have  died  in  the  gutter  but  —  for  how  she  helped 
to  keep  us  out,  you  ungrateful  girl  —  your  poor  old 
grandmother  that's  suffered  so  terrible ! " 

"  I  know  it,  mamma,  but  so  have  other  people  suf- 
fered." 

"She's  old,  Selene  — old."  ^ 

"  I  tell  you  it's  the  way  you  indulge  her,  mamma.  I've 
seen  her  sitting  here  as  perk  as  you  please,  and  the  min- 
ute you  come  in  the  room,  down  goes  her  head  like  — 
like  she  was  dying." 

"  It's  her  mind,  Selene  —  that's  going.  That's  why  I 
feel  if  I  could  only  get  her  back.  She  ain't  old,  gramaw 
ain't.  If  I  could  only  get  her  back  where  she  —  could 
see  for  herself  —  the  graves  —  is  all  she  needs.  All  old 
people  think  of  —  the  grave.  It's  eating  her  —  eating 
her  mind.  Mark  Haas  is  going  to  fix  it  for  me  after 
the  war  —  maybe  before  —  if  he  can.  That's  the  only 
way  poor  gramaw  can  live  —  or  die  —  happy,  Selene. 
Kow  —  now  that  my  —  my  little  girl  ain't  any  longer  my 
responsibility,  I  —  I'm  going  to  take  her  back  —  my  little 
—  girl  " —  her  hand  reached  out,  caressing  the  smooth 
head,  her  face  projected  forward  and  the  eyes  yearning 
down — "  my  all." 

"  It's  you  will  be  my  responsibility  now,  ma." 

"  No !     No !  " 

"  The  first  thing  Lester  says  was  a  flat  on  Wasserman 
and  a  spare  room  for  mother  Coblenz  when  she  wants  to 
come  down.  Wasn't  it  sweet  for  him  to  put  it  that  way 
right  off,  ma.     *  Mother  Coblenz,'  he  says." 

"  He's  a  good  boy,  Selene.     It'll  he  a  proud  day  for 


FANNIE  HURST  343 

me  and  gramaw.  Gramaw  mustn't  miss  none  of  it. 
He's  a  good  boy  and  a  fine  family." 

"  That's  why,  mamma,  we  —  got  to  —  to  do  it  up 
right." 

"  Lester  knows,  child,  he's  not  marrying  a  rich  girl." 

"  A  girl  don't  have  to  —  be  rich  to  get  married  right." 

"  You'll  have  as  good  as  mamma  can  afford  to  give  it  to 
her  girl." 

"It  —  it  would  be  different  if  Lester's  uncle  and  all 
wasn't  in  the  Acme  Club  crowd,  and  if  I  hadn't  got  in 
with  all  that  bunch.  It's  the  last  expense  I'll  ever  be  to 
you,  mamma." 

"  Oh,  baby,  don't  say  that !  " 

"I  —  me  and  Lester  —  Lester  and  me  were  talking, 
mamma  —  when  the  engagement's  announced  next  week 
—  a  reception — " 

**  We  can  clear  out  this  room,  move  the  bed  out  of 
gramaw's  room  into  ours,  and  serve  the  ice-cream  and 
cake  in — " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  don't  mean  —  that !  " 

"What?" 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  having  a  reception  here!  People 
won't  come  from  town  way  out  to  this  old  —  cabbage 
patch.  Even  Gertie  Wolf  with  their  big  house  on  West 
Pine  Boulevard  had  her  reception  at  the  Walsingham 
Hotel.  You  —  we  —  can't  expect  Mark  Haas  and  all  the 
relations  —  the  Sinsheimers  —  and  —  all  to  come  out 
here.     I'd  rather  not  have  any." 

"  But,  Selene,  everybody  knows  we  ain't  millionaires, 
and  that  you  got  in  with  that  crowd  through  being  friends 
at  school  with  Amy  Rosen.  All  the  city  salesmen  and 
the  boys  on  Washington  Avenue,  even  Mark  Haas  him- 
self, that  time  he  was  in  the  store  with  Lester,  knows  the 
way  we  live.  You  don't  need  to  be  ashamed  of  your  lit- 
tle home,  Selene,  even  if  it  ain't  on  West  Pine  Boule- 
vard." 

"  It'll  be  —  your  last  expense,  mamma.     The  Walsing- 


344     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

ham,  that's  where  the  girl  that  Lester  Goldmark  marries 
is  expected  to  have  her  reception." 

"  But,  Selene,  mamma  can't  afford  nothing  like  that." 

Pink  swam  up  into  Miss  Coblenz's  face,  and  above 
the  sheer-white  collar  there  was  a  little  beating  move- 
ment at  the  throat,  as  if  something  were  fluttering  within. 

"I  —  I'd  just  as  soon  not  get  married  as  —  as  not  to 
have  it  like  other  girls." 

"But,  Selene— " 

"If  I  —  can't  have  a  trousseau  like  other  girls  and  the 
things  that  go  with  marrying  into  a  —  a  family  like  Les- 
ter's —  I  —  then  —  there's  no  use.  I  —  I  can't !  I  — 
wouldn't ! " 

She  was  fumbling  now  for  a  handkerchief  against 
tears  that  were  imminent. 

"  Why,  baby,  a  girl  couldn't  have  a  finer  trousseau  than 
the  old  linens  back  yet  from  Russia  that  me  and  gramaw 
got  saved  up  for  our  girl  —  linen  that  can't  be  bought 
these  days.  Bed-sheets  that  gramaw  herself  carried  to 
the  border,  and — " 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  knew  you'd  try  to  dump  that  stuff 
on  me.     That  old  worm-eaten  stuff  in  gramaw's  chest." 

"  It's  hand-woven,  Selene,  with  — " 

"  I  wouldn't  have  that  yellow  old  stuff  —  that  old- 
fashioned  junk  —  if  I  didn't  have  any  trousseau.  If  I 
can't  afford  monogrammed  up-to-date  linens,  like  even 
Alma  Yawitz,  and  a — a  pussy-willow-taffeta  reception 
dress,  I  wouldn't  have  any.  I  wouldn't."  Her  voice 
crowded  with  passion  and  tears  rose  to  the  crest  of  a 
sob.     "I  — I'd  die  first!" 

"  Selene,  Selene,  mamma  ain't  got  the  money.  If  she 
had  it,  wouldn't  she  be  willing  to  take  the  very  last  penny 
to  give  her  girl  the  kind  of  a  wedding  she  wants?  A 
trousseau  like  Alma's  cost  a  thousand  dollars  if  it  cost  a 
cent.  Her  table-napkins  alone  they  say  cost  thirty-six 
dollars  a  dozen,  unmonogrammed  A  reception  at  ihe 
Walsingham  costs  two  hundred  dollars  if  it  costs  a  cent. 


FANNIE  HURST  345 

Selene,  mamma  will  make  for  you  every  sacrifice  she  can 
aflford,  but  she  ain't  got  the  money." 

"  You  —  have  got  the  money !  " 

"  So  help  me  God,  Selene !  You  know,  with  the  quar- 
ries shut  down,  what  business  has  been.  You  know  how 
—  sometimes  even  to  make  ends  meet,  it  is  a  pinch. 
You're  an  ungrateful  girl.  Selene,  to  ask  what  I  ain't 
able  to  do  for  you.  A  child  like  you'that's  been  indulged, 
that  I  ain't  even  asked  ever  in  her  life  to  help  a  day 
down  in  the  store.  If  I  had  the  money.  God  knows  you 
should  be  married  in  real  lace,  with  the  finest  trousseau  a 
girl  ever  had.  But  I  ain't  got  the  money  —  I  ain't  got 
the  money." 

"  You  have  got  the  money !  The  book  in  gramaw's 
drawer  is  seven  hundred  and  forty.  I  guess  I  ain't  blind. 
I  know  a  thing  or  two." 

"  Why  Selene  —  that's  gramaw's  —  to  go  back  — " 

"  You  mean  the  bank-book's  hers  ?  " 

"  That's  gramaw's  to  go  back  —  home  on.  That's  the 
money  for  me  to  take  gramaw  and  her  wreaths  back 
home  on." 

"  There  you  go  —  talking  loony." 

"Selene!" 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  else  you'd  call  it.  kidding 
yourself  alon^  like  that." 

"You--" 

"  All  right.  If  you  think  gramaw.  with  her  life  all 
lived,  comes  first  before  me,  with  all  my  life  to  live  — 
all  right !  " 

"  Your  poor  old  — " 

"  It's  always  been  gramaw  first  in  this  house,  anyway. 
I  couldn't  even  have  company  since  I'm  grown  up  be- 
cause the  way  she's  always  allowed  around.  Nobody 
can  say  I  ain't  good  to  gramaw ;  Lester  say  it's  beautiful 
the  way  I  am  with  her,  remembering  always  to  bring  the 
newspapers  and  all,  but  just  the  same  I  know  when 
right's  right  and  wrong's  wrong.     If  my  life  ain't  more 


346     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

important  than  gramaw's,  with  hers  all  lived,  all  right. 
Go  ahead !  " 

"  Selene,  Selene,  ain't  it  coming  to  gramaw,  after  all 
her  years'  hard  work  helping  us  that  —  she  should  be 
entitled  to  go  back  with  her  wreaths  for  the  graves? 
Ain't  she  entitled  to  die  with  that  off  her  poor  old  mind  ? 
You  bad,  ungrateful  girl,  you,  it's  coming  to  a  poor  old 
woman  that's  suffered  as  terrible  as  gramaw  that  I  should 
fiijd  a  way  to  take  her  back." 

"  Take  her  back.  Where  —  to  jail  ?  To  prison  in  Si- 
beria herself — " 

"  There's  a  way  — " 

"  You  know  gramaw's  too  old  to  take  a  trip  like  that. 
You  know  in  your  own  heart  she  won't  ever  see  that 
day.  Even  before  the  war,  much  less  now,  there  wasn't 
a  chance  for  her  to  get  passports  back  there.  I  don't 
say  it  ain't  all  right  to  kid  her  along,  but  when  it  comes 
to  —  to  keeping  me  out  of  the  —  the  biggest  thing  that 
can  happen  to  a  girl  —  when  gramaw  wouldn't  know  the 
difference  if  you  keep  showing  her  the  bank-book  —  it 
ain't  right.     That's  what  it  ain't.     It  ain't  right !  " 

In  the  smallest  possible  compass.  Miss  Coblenz 
crouched  now  upon  the  floor,  head  down  somewhere  in 
her  knees,  and  her  curving  back  racked  with  rising  sobs. 

"  Selene  —  but  some  day  — " 

"  Some  day  nothing !  A  woman  like  gramaw  can't  do 
much  more  than  go  down-town  once  a  year,  and  then  you 
talk  about  taking  her  to  Russia !  You  can't  get  in  there, 
I  —  tell  you  —  no  way  you  try  to  fix  it  after  —  the  way 
gramaw  —  had  —  to  leave.  Even  before  the  war,  Ray 
Letsky's  father  couldn't  get  back  on  business.  There's 
nothing  for  her  there  even  after  she  gets  there.  In 
thirty  years  do  you  think  you  can  find  those  graves? 
Do  you  know  the  size  of  Siberia?  No!  But  I  got  to 
pay  —  I  got  to  pay  for  gramaw's  nonsense.  But  I  won't. 
I  won't  go  to  Lester,  if  I  can't  go  right.     I  — " 

"  Baby,  don't  cry  so  —  for  God's  sake  don't  cry  so ! " 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead." 


FANNIE  HURST  347 

"  Sh-h-h  —  you'll  wake  gramaw." 

"  I  do !  " 

"  O  God,  help  me  to  do  the  right  thing !  " 

"  If  gramaw  could  understand,  she'd  be  the  first  one 
to  tell  you  the  right  thing.     Anybody  would." 

"  No !  No !  That  little  bank-book  and  its  entries  are 
her  life  —  her  Hfe." 

"  She  don't  need  to  know,  mamma.  I'm  not  asking 
that.  That's  the  way  they  always  do  with  old  people  to 
keep  them  satisfied.  Just  humor  'em.  Ain't  I  the  one 
with  life  before  me  —  ain't  I,  mamma  ?  " 

"  O  God,  show  me  the  way !  " 

"  If  there  was  a  chance,  you  think  I'd  be  spoiling  things 
for  gramaw  ?    But  there  ain't,  mamma  ^  not  one." 

"  I  keep  hoping  if  not  before,  then  after  the  war. 
With  the  help  of  Mark  Haas  — " 

"  With  the  book  in  her  drawer  like  always,  and  the 
entries  changed  once  in  a  while,  she'll  never  know  the 
difference.  I  swear  to  God  she'll  never  know  the  dif- 
ference, mamma ! " 

"  Poor  gramaw  !  " 

"  Mamma,  promise  me  —  your  little  Selene.  Promise 
me?" 

"  Selene,  Selene,  can  we  keep  it  from  her?" 

"  I  swear  we  can,  mamma." 

"  Poor,  poor  gramaw  !  " 

"Mamma?     Mamma  darling?  " 

"  O  God,  show  me  the  way !  " 

"Ain't  it  me  that's  got  life  before  me?  My  whole 
Hfe?" 

"  Yes  —  Selene." 

"  Then,  mamma,  please  —  you  will  —  you  will  —  dar- 
ling?" 

"  Yes,  Selene." 

In  a  large,  all-frescoed,  seventy-five  dollars  an  evening 
with  lights  and  cloak-room  service  ballroom  of  the  Hotel 
Walsingham,  a  family  hostelry  in  that  family  circle  of 


348     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

St.  Louis  known  as  its  West  End,  the  city  holds  not  a 
few  of  its  charity-whists  and  benefit  musicales ;  on  a  dais 
which  can  be  carried  in  for  the  purpose,  morning  read- 
ings of  "  Little  Moments  from  Little  Plays,"  and  with 
the  introduction  of  a  throne-chair,  the  monthly  lodge- 
meetinj^s  of  the  Lady  Mahadharatas  of  America.  For 
weddings  and  receptions,  a  lane  of  red  carpet  leads  up  to 
the  slight  dais;  and,  lined  about  the  brocade  and  pan- 
eled walls,  gilt-and-brocade  chairs,  with  the  crest  of  Wal- 
singham  in  padded  embroidery  on  the  backs.  Crystal 
chandeliers,  icicles  of  dripping  light,  glow  down  upon  a 
scene  of  parquet  f^oor,  draped  velours,  and  mirrors 
wreathed  in  gilt. 

At  ]\Iiss  Selene  Coblenz's  engagement  reception,  an 
event  properly  festooned  with  smilax  and  properly  jostled 
with  the  elbowing  figures  of  waiters  tilting  their  plates  of 
dark-meat  chicken  salad,  two  olives,  and  a  finger-roll  in 
among  the  crowd,  a  stringed  three-piece  orchestra,  faintly 
seen  and  still  more  faintly  heard,  played  into  the  babel. 

Light,  glitteringly  filtered  tlirough  the  glass  prisms, 
flowed  down  upon  the  dais ;  upon  Miss  Selene  Coblenz,  in 
a  taffeta  that  wrapped  her  flat  waist  and  chest  like  a  calyx 
and  suddenly  bloomed  into  the  full  inverted  petals  of  a 
skirt;  upon  Mr.  Lester  Goldmark,  his  long  body  barely 
knitted  yet  to  man's  estate,  and  his  complexion  almost 
clear,  standing  omnivorous,  omnipotent,  omnipresent,  his 
hair  so  well  brushed  that  it  lay  like  black  ja])anning,  a 
white  carnation  at  his  silk  lapel,  and  his  smile  slightly 
projected  by  a  rush  of  very  white  teeth  to  the  very  front. 
Next  in  line,  Mrs.  Coblenz,  the  red  of  a  fervent  moment 
high  in  her  face,  beneath  the  maroon-net  bodice  the  swell 
of  her  bosom  fast,  and  her  white-gloved  hands  constantly 
at  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  lace-and-spangled  fan. 
Back,  and  well  out  of  the  picture,  a  potted  hydrangea 
beside  the  Louis  Quinze  armchair,  her  hands  in  silk  mitts 
laid  out  along  the  gold-chair  sides,  her  head  quavering  in 
a  kind  of  mild  palsy,  Mrs.  Miriam  Horowitz,  smiling  and 
quivering  her  state  of  bewilderment. 


FANNIE  HURST  349 

With  an  unfailing  propensity  to  lay  hold  of  to  whom- 
soever he  spake,  Mr.  Lester  Goldmark  placed  his  white- 
gloved  hand  upon  the  white-gloved  arm  of  Mrs.  Coblenz. 

"  Say,  mother  Coblenz,  ain't  it  about  time  this  little 
girl  of  mine  was  resting  her  pink-satin  double  A's? 
She's  been  on  duty  up  here  from  four  to  seven.  No 
wonder  uncle  Mark  bucked." 

Mrs.  Coblenz  threw  her  glance  out  over  the  crowded 
room,  surging  with  a  wave  of  plumes  and  clipped  heads 
like  a  swaying  bucket  of  water  which  crowds  but  does  not 
lap  over  its  sides. 

"  I  guess  the  crowd  is  finished  coming  in  by  now. 
You  tired,  Selene  ?  " 

Miss  Coblenz  turned  her  glowing  glance. 

"  Tired !  This  is  the  swellest  engagement-party  I 
ever  had." 

Mrs.  Coblenz  shifted  her  weight  from  one  slipper  to 
the  other,  her  maroon-net  skirts  lying  in  a  swirl  around 
them. 

"  Just  look  at  gramaw,  too !  vShe  holds  up  her  head 
with  the  best  of  them.  I  wouldn't  have  had  her  miss 
this,  not  for  the  world." 

"  Sure  one  fine  old  lady !  Ought  to  have  seen  her 
shake  my  hand,  mother  Coblenz.  I  nearly  had  to  holler, 
'  Ouch ! '  " 

"  Mamma,  here  comes  Sara  Suss  and  her  mother. 
Take  my  arm,  Lester  honey.  People  mamma  used  to 
know  "  Miss  Coblenz  leaned  forward  beyond  the  dais 
with  the  frail  curve  of  a  reed. 

"  Howdado,  Mrs.  Suss.  .  .  .  Thank  you.  Thanks. 
Howdado,  Sara.  Meet  my  fiance,  Lester  Haas  Gold- 
mark  ;  Mrs.  Suss  and  Sara  Suss,  my  fiance.  .  .  .  That's 
right ;  better  late  than  never.  There's  plenty  left.  .  .  . 
We  think  he  is,  Mrs  Suss.  Aw,  Lester  honey,  quit! 
Mamma,  here's  Mrs.  Suss  and  Sadie." 

"  Mrs  Suss!  Say  —  if  you  hadn't  come.  I  was  going 
to  lay  it  up  against  you.  If  my  new  ones  can  come  on  a 
day  like  this,  it's  a  pity  my  old  friends  can't  come,  too. 


350     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

"  Well,  Sadie,  it's  your  turn  next,  eh  ?  ...  I  know  bet- 
ter than  that.  With  them  pink  cheeks  and  black  eyes, 
I  wish  I  had  a  dime  for  every  chance."  (Sotto.)  "  Do 
you  like  it,  Mrs.  Suss?  Pussy-willow  taffeta.  .  .  .  Say, 
it  ought  to  be.  An  estimate  dress  from  Madame  Murphy 
—  sixty-five  with  findings.  I'm  so  mad,  Sara,  you  and 
your  mamma  couldn't  come  to  the  house  that  night  to 
see  her  things.  HI  say  so  myself,  Mrs.  Suss,  everybody 
who  seen  it  says  Jacob  Sinsheimer's  daughter  herself 
didn't  have  a  finer.  Maybe  not  so  much,  but  every 
stitch,  Mrs.  Suss,  made  by  the  same  sisters  in  the  same 
convent  that  made  hers.  .  .  .  Towels !  I  tell  her  it's  a 
shame  to  expose  them  to  the  light,  much  less  wipe  on 
them.  Ain't  it?  .  .  .  The  goodness  looks  out  from  his 
face.  And  such  a  love-pair!  Lunatics,  I  call  them. 
He  can't  keep  his  hands  off.  It  ain't  nice,  I  tell  him. 
.  .  .  Me?  Come  close.  I  dyed  the  net  myself.  Ten 
cents'  worth  of  maroon  color.  Don't  it  warm  your  heart, 
Mrs.  Suss?  This  morning,  after  we  got  her  in  Lester's 
uncle  Mark's  big  automobile,  I  says  to  her,  I  says, 
'  Mamma,  you  sure  it  ain't  too  much.'  Like  her  old  self 
for  a  minute,  Mrs.  Suss,  she  hit  me  on  the  arm.  '  Go 
'way,'  she  said,  '  on  my  grandchild's  engagement-day 
anything  should  be  too  much?  Here,  waiter,  get  these 
two  ladies  some  salad.  Good  measure,  too.  Over  there 
by  the  window,  Mrs.  Suss.     Help  yourselves." 

"  Mamma,  sh-h-h,  the  waiters  know  what  to  do." 

Mrs.  Coblenz  turned  back,  the  flush  warm  to  her  face. 

"  Say,  for  an  old  friend,  I  can  be  my  own  self." 

"  Can  we  break  the  receiving-line  now,  Lester  honey, 
and  go  down  with  everybody  ?  The  Sinsheimers  and 
their  crowd  over  there  by  themselves,  we  ought  to  show 
we  appreciate,  their  coming." 

Mr.  Goldmark  twisted  high  in  his  collar,  cupping  her 
small  bare  elbow  in  his  hand. 

"  That's  what  I  say,  lovey ;  let's  break.  Come,  mother 
Coblenz,  let's  step  down  on  high  society's  corns." 

"Lester!" 


FANNIE  HURST  35 1 

"  You  and  Selene  go  down  with  the  crowd,  Lester.  I 
want  to  take  gramaw  to  rest  for  a  while  before  we  go 
home.  The  manager  says  we  can  have  room  fifty-six 
by  the  elevator  for  her  to  rest  in." 

"  Get  her  some  newspapers,  ma,  and  I  brought  her  a 
wreath  down  to  keep  her  quiet.  It's  wrapped  in  her 
shawl." 

Her  skirts  delicately  lifted,  Miss  Coblenz  stepped  down 
off  the  dais.  With  her  cloud  of  gauze  scarf  enveloping 
her,  she  was  like  a  tulle-clouded  "  Springtime,"  done  in 
the  key  of  Botticelli. 

"  Oop-si-lah,  lovey-dovey!"  said  Mr.  Goldmark,  tilt- 
ing her  elbow  for  the  downward  step. 

"  Oop-si-lay,  dovey-lovey !  "  said  Miss  Coblenz,  relax- 
ing to  the  support. 

Gathering  up  her  plentiful  skirts,  Mrs.  Coblenz  stepped 
off,  too,  but  back  toward  the  secluded  chair  beside  the 
potted  hydrangea.  A  fine  line  of  pain,  like  a  cord  tight- 
ening, was  binding  her  head,  and  she  put  up  two  fingers 
to  each  temple,  pressing  down  the  throb. 

"  Mrs.  Coblenz,  see  what  I  got  for  you !  "  She  turned, 
smiling.  "  You  don't  look  like  you  need  salad  and  green 
ice-cream.  You  look  like  you  needed  what  I  wanted  — 
a  cup  of  coffee." 

"  Aw,  Mr.  Haas  —  now  where  in  the  world  —  aw,  Mr. 
Haas!" 

With  a  steaming  cup  outheld  and  carefully  out  of  col- 
lision with  the  crowd,  Mr.  Haas  unflapped  a  napkin  with 
his  free  hand,  inserting  his  foot  in  the  rung  of  a  chair 
and  dragging  it  toward  her. 

"  Now,"  he  cried,  "  sit  and  watch  me  take  care  of 
you !  " 

There  comes  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  when  the 
years  lap  softly,  leaving  no  particular  inundations  on  the 
celebrated  sands  of  time.  Between  forty  and  fifty,  that 
span  of  years  which  begin  the  first  slight  gradations  from 
the  apex  of  life,  the  gray  hair,  upstanding  like  a  thick- 
bristled  brush  off  Mr.  Haas's  brow,  had  not  so  much  as 


352     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

whitened,  or  the  shght  paunchiness  enhanced  even  the 
moving-over  of  a  button.  When  Mr.  Haas  smiled,  his 
mustache,  which  ended  in  a  sHght  but  not  waxed  flourish, 
hfted  to  reveal  a  white-and-gold  smile  of  the  artistry  of 
careful  dentistry,  and  when,  upon  occasion,  he  threw 
back  his  head  to  laugh,  the  roof  of  his  mouth  was  his 
own. 

He  smiled  now,  peering  through  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles attached  by  a  chain  to  a  wire-encircled  left  ear. 

"  Sit,"  he  cried,  "  and  let  me  serve  you !  " 

Standing  there  with  a  diffidence  which  she  could  not 
crowd  down,  Mrs.  Coblenz  smiled  through  closed  lips 
that  would  pull  at  the  corners. 

"The  idea,  Mr.  Haas  —  going  to  all  that  trouble!" 

"  '  Trouble,'  she  says !  After  two  hours  hand-shaking 
in  a  swallowtail,  a  man  knows  what  real  trouble  is !  " 

She  stirred  around  and  around  the  cup,  supping  up 
spoonfuls  gratefully. 

"  I'm  sure  much  obliged.     It  touches  the  right  spot." 

He  pressed  her  down  to  the  chair,  seating  himself  on 
the  low  edge  of  the  dais. 

"  Now  you  sit  right  here  and  rest  your  bones." 

"  But  my  mother,  Mr.  Haas.  .  Before  it's  time  for  the 
ride  home,  she  must  rest  in  a  quiet  place." 

"  My  car'U  be  here  and  waiting  five  minutes  after  I 
telephone." 

"You  —  sure  have  been  grand,  Mr.  Haas!" 

"  I  shouldn't  be  grand  yet  to  my  —  let's  see  what  rela- 
tion is  it  I  am  to  you  ?  " 

"Honest,  you're  a  case,  Mr,  Haas  —  always  making 
fun!" 

"  My  poor  dead  sister's  son  marries  your  daughter. 
That  makes  you  my  —  nothing-in-law." 

"  Honest,  Mr.  Haas,  if  I  was  around  you,  I'd  get  fat 
laughing." 

"  I  wish  you  was." 

"  Selene  would  have  fits.  *  Never  get  fat,  mamma,' 
she  says,  '  if  you  don't  want '  " 


FANNIE  HURST  353 

"  I  don't  mean  that." 

"What?" 

"  I  mean  I  wish  you  was  around  me." 

She  struck  him  then  with  her  fan,  but  the  color  rose 
up  into  the  mound  of  her  carefully  piled  hair. 

"  I  always  say  I  can  see  where  Lester  gets  his  comical 
ways.     Like  his  uncle,  that  boy  keeps  us  all  laughing." 

"  Gad,  look  at  her  blush !  I  know  women  your  age 
would  give  fifty  dollars  a  blush  to  do  it  that  way." 

She  was  looking  away  again,  shoulders  heaving  to 
silent  laughter,  the  blush  still  stinging. 

"  It's  been  so  —  so  long,  Mr.  Haas,  since  I  had  compli- 
ments made  to  me  —  you  make  me  feel  so  —  silly." 

"  I  know  it,  you  nice,  fine  woman,  you,  and  it's  a  darn 
shame ! " 

"  Mr.—  Haas  !  " 

"  I  mean  it.  I  hate  to  see  a  fine  woman  not  get  her 
dues.  Anyways,  when  she's  the  finest  woman  of  them 
all ! " 

"I  —  the  woman  that  lives  to  see  a  day  like  this  — 
her  daughter  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world  with  the  finest 
boy  in  the  world  —  is  getting  her  dues  all  right,  Mr. 
Haas." 

"  She's  a  fine  girl,  but  she  ain't  worth  her  mother's 
little  finger  nail." 

"  Mr.—  Haas !  " 

"  No,  sir-ee !  " 

"I  must  be  going  now,  Mr.  Haas  —  my  mother — " 

"  That's  right.  The  minute  a  man  tries  to  break  the 
ice  with  this  little  lady,  it's  a  freeze-out.  Now,  what  did 
I  say  so  bad  ?  In  business,  too.  Never  seen  the  like. 
It's  like  trying  to  swat  a  fly  to  come  down  on  you  at  the 
right  minute.  But  now,  with  you  for  a  nothing-in-law, 
I  got  rights." 

"  If  —  you  ain't  the  limit,  Mr.  Haas!" 

"  Don't  mind  saying  it,  Mrs.  C,  and,  for  a  bachelor, 
they  tell  me  I'm  not  the  worst  judge  in  the  world,  but 
there's  not  a  woman  on  the  floor  stacks  up  like  you  do," 


354     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

"  Well  —  of  all  things !  " 

"  Mean  it."    > 

"  My  mother,  Mr.  Haas,  she — " 

"  And  if  anybody  should  ask  you  if  I've  got  you  on 
my  mind  or  not,  well  I've  already  got  the  letters  out  on 
that  little  matter  of  the  passports  you  spoke  to  me  about. 
If  there's  a  way  to  fix  that  up  for  you,  and  leave  it  to 
me  to  find  it,  I  — " 

She  sprang  now,  trembling,  to  her  feet,  all  the  red  of 
the  moment  receding. 

"  Mr.  Haas,  I  —  I  must  go  now.     My  —  mother  — " 
I      He  took  her   arm,    winding  her   in   and    out   among 
crowded-out  chairs  behind  the  dais. 

"  I  wish  it  to  every  mother  to  have  a  daughter  like 
you,  Mrs.  C." 

"  No !  No ! "  she  said,  stumbling  rather  wildly 
through  the  chairs.     "  No !     No !     No !  " 

He  forged  ahead,  clearing  her  path  of  them. 

Beside  the  potted  hydrangea,  well  back  and  yet  within 
an  easy  view,  Mrs.  Horowitz,  her  gilt  armchair  well  cush- 
ioned for  the  occasion,  and  her  black  grenadine  spread 
decently  about  her,  looked  out  upon  the  scene,  her  slightly 
palsied  head  well  forward. 

"  Mamma,  you  got  enough  ?  You  wouldn't  have 
missed  it,  eh?  A  crowd  of  people  we  can  be  proud  to 
entertain,  not?  Come;  sit  quiet  in  another  room  for  a 
while,  and  then  Mr.  Haas,  with  his  nice  big  car,  will 
drive  us  all  home  again.  You  know  Mr.  Haas,  dearie  — 
Lester's  uncle  that  had  us  drove  so  careful  in  his  fine 
big  car.     You  remember,  dearie  —  Lester's  uncle?" 

Mrs.  Horowitz  looked  up,  her  old  face  cracking  to 
smile. 

"  My  grandchild  !  My  grandchild !  She'm  a  fine  one. 
Not  ?     My  grandchild !     My  grandchild  !  " 

"  You  —  mustn't  mind,  Mr.  Haas.  That's  —  the  way 
she's  done  since  —  since  she's  —  sick.  Keeps  repeat- 
mg  — 

"  My  grandchild !     From  a  good  mother  and  a  bad 


FANNIE  HURST  355 

father  comes  a  good  grandchild.  My  grandchild ! 
She'm  a  good  one.     My — " 

"  Mamma,  dearie,  Mr.  Haas  is  in  a  hurry.  He's  come 
to  help  me  walk  you  into  a  little  room  to  rest  before  we 
go  home  in  Mr.  Haas's  big  fine  auto.  Where  you  can 
go  and  rest,  mamma,  and  read  the  newspapers.     Come." 

"  My  back  —  acli  —  my  back  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mamma  ;  we'll  fix  it.     Up !     So  —  la  !  " 

They  raised  her  by  the  crook  of  each  arm,  gently. 

*'  So !  Please,  Mr.  Haas,  the  pillows.  Shawl. 
There!" 

Around  a  rear  hallway,  they  were  almost  immediately 
into  a  blank,  staring  hotel  bedroom,  fresh  towels  on  the 
furniture-tops  only  enhancing  its  staleness. 

"  Here  we  are.     Sit  her  here,  Mr.  Haas,  in  this  rocker." 

They  lowered  her  almost  inch  by  inch,  sliding  down 
pillows  against  the  chair-back. 

"Now,  Shila's  little  mamma,  want  to  sleep?" 

"  I  got  —  no  rest  —  no  rest." 

"  You're  too  excited,  honey,  that's  all." 

"  No  rest." 

"  Here  —  here's  a  brand-new  hotel  Bible  on  the  table, 
dearie.     Shall  Shila  read  it  to  you  ?  " 

"Aylorff— " 

"  Now,  now,  mamma.  Now.  now ;  you  mustn't ! 
Didn't  you  promise  Shila  ?  Look !  See,  here's  a  wreath 
wrapped  in  your  shawl  for  Shila's  little  mamma  to  work 
on.  Plenty  of  wreaths  for  us  to  take  back.  Work 
awhile,  dearie,  and  then  we'll  get  Selene  and  Lester,  and, 
after  all  the  nice  company  goes  away,  we'll  go  home  in  the 
auto." 

"  I  begged  he  should  keep  in  his  hate  —  his  feet  in 
the—" 

"  I  know !  The  papers.  That's  what  little  mamma 
wants.  Mr.  Haas,  that's  what  she  likes  better  than  any- 
thing —  the  evening  papers." 

"  I'll  go  down  and  send  'em  right  up  with  a  boy,  and 
telephone  for  the  car.     The  crowd's  beginning  to  pour 


356     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

out  now.  Just  hold  your  horses  there,  Mrs,  C,  and  I'll 
have  those  papers  up  here  in  a  jiffy." 

He  was  already  closing  the  door  after  him,  letting  in 
and  shutting  out  a  flare  of  music. 

"  See,  mamma,  nice  Mr.  Haas  is  getting  us  the  papers. 
Nice  evening  papers  for  Shila's  mamma."  She  leaned 
down  into  the  recesses  of  the  black  grenadine,  withdraw- 
ing from  one  of  the  pockets  a  pair  of  silver-rimmed  spec- 
tacles, adjusting  them  with  some  difficulty  to  the  nodding 
head.     "  Shila's  —  little  mamma !     Shila's  mamma  !  " 

"Aylorff,  the  littlest  wreath  for  —  Aylorff —  Meine 
Krdntce—" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Mein  Mann.     Mein  Suhn." 

"  Ssh-h-h,  dearie !  " 

"  Aylorif  —  der  klcnste  Kranz  far  ihm ! " 

"  Ssh-h-h,  dearie  —  talk  English,  like  Selene  wants. 
Wait  till  we  get  on  the  ship  —  the  beautiful  ship  to  take 
us  back.  Mamma,  see  out  the  window !  Look !  That's 
the  beautiful  Forest  Park,  and  this  is  the  fine  Hotel 
Walsingham  just  across  —  see  out — Selene  is  going  to 
have  a  fiat  on  — " 

"  Sey  hoben  gestorhen  far  Freiheit.     Sey  hoben  — " 

"  There,  that's  the  papers  !  " 

To  a  succession  of  quick  knocks,  she  flew  to  the  door, 
returning  with  the  folded  evening  editions  under  her  arm. 

"  Now,"  she  cried,  unfolding  and  inserting  the  first  of 
them  into  the  quivering  hands,  ''  now,  a  shawl  over  my 
little  mamma's  knees  and  we're  fixed ! " 

With  a  series  of  rapid  movements,  she  flung  open  one 
of  the  black-cashmere  shawls  across  the  bed,  folding  it 
back  into  a  triangle.  Beside  the  table,  bare  except  for 
the  formal,  unthumbed  Bible,  Mrs.  Horowitz  rattled  out 
her  paper,  her  near-sighted  eyes  traveling  back  and  forth 
across  the  page. 

Music  from  the  ferned-in  orchestra  came  in  drifts, 
faint,  not  so  faint.     From  somewhere,  then  immediately 


FANNIE  HURST  357 

from  everywhere,  beyond,  below,  without,  the  fast  shouts 
of  newsboys  minghng. 

Suddenly  and  of  her  own  volition,  and  with  a  cry  that 
shot  up  through  the  room,  rending  it  like  a  gash,  Mrs. 
Horowitz,  who  moved  by  inches,  sprang  to  her  supreme 
height,  her  arms,  the  crooks  forced  out,  flung  up. 

"  My  darlings  —  what  died  —  for  it !  My  darlings 
what  died  for  it  —  my  darlings  —  Aylorff  —  my  hus- 
band !  "  There  was  a  wail  rose  up  off  her  words,  like  the 
smoke  of  incense  curling,  circling  around  her.  "  My 
darlings  what  died  to  make  free !  " 

"  Mamma  —  darling  —  mamma  —  Mr.  Haas !  Help ! 
Mamma  !     My  God !  " 

"  Aylorff  —  my  husband  —  I  paid  with  my  blood  to 
make  free  —  my  blood  —  my  son  —  my  —  own  — "  Im- 
movable there,  her  arms  flung  up  and  tears  so  heavy 
that  they  rolled  whole  from  her  face  down  to  the  black 
grenadine,  she  was  as  sonorous  as  the  tragic  meter  of  an 
Alexandrian  line ;  she  was  like  Ruth,  ancestress  of  heroes 
and  progenitor  of  kings.  "My  boy  —  my  own  —  they 
died  for  it!     Mein  Mann!    Mcin  Si'thn!" 

On  her  knees,  frantic  to  press  her  down  once  more  into 
the  chair,  terrified  at  the  rigid  immobility  of  the  upright 
figure,  Mrs.  Coblenz  paused  then,  too,  her  clasp  falling 
away,  and  leaned  forward  to  the  open  sheet  of  the  news- 
paper, its  black  headlines  facing  her : 

RUSSIA  FREE 

BANS   DOWN 
ICX),00O    SIBERI.XN    PRISONERS   LIBERATED 

In  her  ears  a  ringing  silence,  as  if  a  great  steel  disk 
had  clattered  down  into  the  depths  of  her  consciousness. 
There  on  her  knees,  trembling  seized  her,  and  she  hugged 
herself  against  it,  leaning  forward  to  corroborate  her 
gaze. 


358     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

MOST   RIGID   AUTOCRACY    IN    THE    WORLD 
OVERTHROWN 

RUSSIA  REJOICES 

"Mamma!     Mamma!     My  God,  Mamma!" 

"  Home,  Shila ;  home  I  My  husband  who  died  for  it  — 
Aylorff!  Home  now,  quick!  My  wreaths!  My 
wreaths  I  " 

"Omy  God,  Mamma!" 

"Home!" 

"  Yes  —  darling  —  yes  — " 

"  My  wreaths !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  darling ;  your  wreaths.  Let  —  let  me  think. 
Freedom !  —  O  my  God,  help  me  to  find  a  way !  O  my 
God ! " 

"  My  wreaths !  " 

"  Here  —  darling  —  here !  " 

From  the  floor  beside  her,  the  raffia  wreath  half  in  the 
making,  Mrs.  Coblenz  reached  up,  pressing  it  flat  to  the 
heaving  old  bosom. 

"  There,  darling,  there !  " 

"  I  paid  with  my  blood  — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mamma ;  you  —  paid  with  your  blood. 
Mamma  —  sit,  please.  Sit  and  —  let's  try  to  think. 
Take  it  slow,  darling  —  it's  like  we  can't  take  it  in  all  at 
once.  I  —  we  —  sit  down,  darling.  You'll  make  your- 
self terrible  sick.  Sit  down,  darling,  you  —  you're  slip- 
ping." 

"  My  wreaths  — " 

Heavily,  the  arm  at  the  waist  gently  sustaining,  Mrs. 
Horowitz  sank  rather  softly  down,  her  eyelids  fluttering 
for  the  moment.  A  smile  had  come  out  on  her  face,  and. 
as  her  head  sank  back  against  the  rest,  the  eyes  resting 
at  the  downward  flutter,  she  gave  out  a  long  breath,  not 
taking  it  in  again. 

"  Mamma !  You're  fainting ! "  She  leaned  to  her, 
shaking  the  relaxed  figure  by  the  elbows,  her  face  almost 
touching  the  tallowlike  one  with  the  smile  lying  so  deeply 


FANNIE  HURST  359 

into  it.  "  Mamma !  My  God,  darling,  wake  up !  I'll 
take  you  back.  I'll  find  a  way  to  take  you.  I'm  a  bad 
girl,  darling,  but  I'll  find  a  way  to  take  you.  I'll  take 
you  if  —  if  I  kill  for  it.  I  promise  before  God  I'll  take 
you.  To-morrow  —  now  —  nobody  can  keep  me  from 
taking  you.  The  wreaths,  mamma!  Get  ready  the 
wreaths!  Mamma,  darling,  wake  up.  Get  ready  the 
wreaths !  The  wreaths  !  "  Shaking  at  that  quiet  form, 
sobs  that  were  full  of  voice,  tearing  raw  from  her  throat, 
she  fell  to  kissing  the  sunken  face,  enclosing  it,  stroking 
it,  holding  her  streaming  gaze  closely  and  burningly 
against  the  closed  lids.  "  Mamma,  I  swear  to  God  I'll 
take  you !  Answer  me,  mamma !  The  bank-book  — 
you've  got  it !  Why  don't  you  wake  up  —  marmma  ? 
Help!" 

Upon  that  scene,  the  quiet  of  the  room  so  raucously 
lacerated,  burst  Mr.  Haas,  too  breathless  for  voice. 

"  Mr.  Haas  my  mother  —  help  —  my  mother !  It's  a 
faint,  ain't  it  ?     A  faint  ?  " 

He  was  beside  her  at  two  bounds,  feeling  of  the  limp 
wrists,  laying  his  ear  to  the  grenadine  bosom,  lifting  the 
reluctant  lids,  touching  the  flesh  that  yielded  so  to  touch. 

"It's  a  faint,  ain't  it,  Mr.  Haas?  Tell  her  I'll  take 
her  back.  Wake  her  up,  Mr.  Haas !  Tell  her  I'm  a  bad 
girl,  but  I  —  I'm  going  to  take  her  back.  Now !  Tell 
her!  Tell  her,  Mr.  Haas,  I've  got  the  bank-book. 
Please !     Please !     O  my  God  I  " 

He  turned  to  her,  his  face  working  to  keep  down  com- 
passion. 

"  We  must  get  a  doctor,  little  lady." 

She  threw  out  an  arm. 

"No  I  No !  I  see !  My  old  mother  —  my  old 
mother  —  all  her  life  a  nobody  —  she  helped  —  she  gave 
it  to  them  —  my  mother  —  a  poor  little  widow  nobody 
—  she  bought  with  her  blood  that  freedom  —  she  — " 

"  God,  I  just  heard  it  downstairs  —  it's  the  tenth  won- 
der of  the  world.  It's  too  big  to  take  in.  I  was 
afraid — '' 


36o     GET  READY  THE  WREATHS 

"  Mamma  darling,  I  tell  you,  wake  up !  I'm  a  bad  girl, 
but  I'll  take  you  back.  Tell  her,  Mr.  Haas,  I'll  take  her 
back.  Wake  up,  darling!  I  swear  to  God  —  I'll  take 
you ! " 

"  Mrs.  Coblenz,  my  —  poor  little  lady  —  your  mother 
don't  need  you  to  take  her  back.  She's  gone  back  where 
—  where  she  wants  to  be.  Look  at  her  face,  little  lady  ; 
can't  you  see  she's  gone  back  ?  " 

"  No !  No !  Let  me  go.  Let  me  touch  her.  No ! 
No !     Mamma  darling !  " 

"  Why,  there  wasn't  a  way,  little  lady,  you  could  have 
fixed  it  for  that  poor  —  old  body.  She's  beyond  any  of 
the  poor  fixings  we  could  do  for  her.  You  never  saw 
her  face  like  that  before.     Look !  " 

"  The  wreaths  —  the  wreaths  !  " 

He  picked  up  the  raffia  circle,  placing  it  back  again 
against  the  quiet  bosom. 

"  Poor  little  lady !  "  he  said.  "  Shila  —  that's  left  for 
us  to  do.  You  and  -me,  Shila  —  we'll  take  the  wreaths 
back  for  her." 

"  My  darling  —  my  darling  mother !  I'll  take  them 
back  for  you  !     I'll  take  them  back  for  you !  " 

"We'll  take  them  back  for  her— Shila." 

"I'll—" 

''  We'll  take  them  back  for  her  —  Shila." 

■"'  We'll  take  them  back  for  you,  mamma.  We'll  take 
them  back  for  you,  darling !  " 


THE  STRANGE-LOOKING  MAN  ' 

By  fanny  KEMBLE  JOHNSON 

From  The  Pagan 

A  TINY  village  lay  among  the  mountains  of  a  country 
from  which  for  four  years  the  men  had  gone  forth 
to  fight.  First  the  best  men  had  gone,  then  the  older 
men,  then  the  youths,  and  lastly  the  school  boys.  It 
will  be  seen  that  no  men  could  have  been  left  in  the  village 
except  the  very  aged,  and  the  bodily  incapacitated,  who 
soon  died,  owing  to  the  war  policy  of  the  Government 
which  was  to  let  the  useless  perish  that  there  might  be 
more  food  for  the  useful. 

Now  it  chanced  that  while  all  the  men  went  away,  save 
those  left  to  die  of  slow  starvation,  only  a  few  returned, 
and  these  few  were  crippled  and  disfigured  in  various 
ways.  One  young  man  had  only  part  of  a  face,  and  had 
to  wear  a  painted  tin  mask,  like  a  holiday-maker.  An- 
other had  two  legs  but  no  arms,  and  another  two  arms  but 
no  legs.  One  man  could  scarcely  be  looked  at  by  his  own 
mother,  having  had  his  eyes  burned  out  of  his  head  until 
he  stared  like  Death.  One  had  neither  arms  nor  legs, 
and  was  mad  of  his  misery  besides,  and  lay  all  day  in  a 
cradle  like  a  baby.  And  there  was  a  quite  old  man  who 
strangled  night  and  day  from  having  sucked  in  poison- 
gas;  and  another,  a  mere  boy,  who  shook,  like  a  leaf  in 
a  high  wind,  from  shell-shock,  and  screamed  at  a  sound. 
And  he  "too  had  lost  a  hand,  and  part  of  his  face,  though 
not  enough  to  warrant  the  expense  of  a  mask  for  him. 

All  these  men,  except  he  who  had  been  crazed  by  horror 
of  himself,  had  been  furnished  with  ingenious  appliances 
to  enable  them  to  be  partly  self-supporting,  and  to 
earn  enough  to  pay  their  share  of  the  taxes  which  bur- 
dened their  defeated  nation. 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Pagan  Publishing  Company.  Copyright,  1918, 
by  Fannv   Kemble  Johnson. 

.161 


362  THE  STRANGE-LOOKING  MAN 

To  go  through  that  village  after  the  war  was  something 
like  going  through  a  life-sized  toy-village  with  all  the 
mechanical  figures  wound  up  and  clicking.  Only  instead 
of  the  figures  being  new,  and  gay,  and  pretty,  they  were 
battered  and  grotesque  and  inhuman. 

There  would  be  the  windmill,  and  the  smithy,  and  the 
public  house.  There  would  be  the  row  of  cottages,  the 
village  church,  the  sparkling  waterfall,  the  parti-colored 
fields  spread  out  like  bright  kerchiefs  on  the  hillsides,  the 
parading  fowl,  the  goats  and  cows, —  though  not  many  of 
these  last.  There  would  be  the  women,  and  with  them 
some  children;  very  few,  however,  for  the  women  had 
been  getting  reasonable,  and  were  now  refusing  to  have 
sons  who  might  one  day  be  sent  back  to  them  limbless  and 
mad,  to  be  rocked  in  cradles  —  for  many  years,  perhaps. 

Still  the  younger  women,  softer  creatures  of  impulse, 
had  borne  a  child  or  two.  One  of  these,  born  the  second 
year  of  the  war,  was  a  very  blonde  and  bullet-headed 
rascal  of  three,  with  a  bullying  air,  arid  of  a  roving  dis- 
position. But  such  traits  appear  engaging  in  children  of 
sufficiently  tender  years,  and  he  was  a  sort  of  village  play- 
thing, here,  there,  and  everywhere,  on  the  most  familiar 
terms  with  the  wrecks  of  the  war  which  the  Govern- 
ment of  that  country  had  made. 

He  tried  on  the  tin  mask  and  played  with  the 
baker's  mechanical  leg,  so  indulgent  were  they  of  his 
caprices ;  and  it  amused  him  excessively  to  rock  the 
cradle  of  the  man  who  had  no  limbs,  and  who  was  his 
father. 

In  and  out  he  ran,  and  was  humored  to  his  bent. 
To  one  he  seemed  the  son  he  had  lost,  to  another  the  son 
he  might  have  had,  had  the  world  gone  differently.  To 
others  he  served  as  a  brief  escape  from  the  shadow  of 
a  future  without  hope ;  to  others  yet,  the  diversion  of  an 
hour.  This  last  was  especially  true  of  the  blind  man 
who  sat  at  the  door  of  his  old  mother's  cottage  binding 
brooms.  The  presence  of  the  child  seemed  to  him  like  a 
warm  ray  of  sunshine  falling  across  his  hand,  and  he 


FANNY  KEMBLE  JOHNSON  363 

would  lure  him  to  linger  by  letting  him  try  on  the  great 
blue  goggles  which  he  found  it  best  to  wear  in  public. 
But  no  disfigurement  or  deformity  appeared  to  frighten 
the  little  fellow.  These  had  been  his  playthings  from 
earliest  infancy. 

One  morning,  his  mother,  being  busy  washing  clothes, 
had  left  him  alone,  confident  that  he  would  soon  seek 
out  some  friendly  fragment  of  soldier,  and  entertain 
himself  till  noon  and  hunger-time.  But  occasionally 
children  have  odd  notions,  and  do  the  exact  opposite  of 
what  one  supposes. 

On  this  brilliant  summer  morning  the  child  fancied  a 
solitary  ramble  along  the  bank  of  the  mountain-stream. 
Vaguely  he  meant  to  seek  a  pool  higher  up,  and  to  cast 
stones  in  it.  He  wandered  slowly  straying  now  and  then 
into  small  valleys,  or  chasing  wayside  ducks.  It  was  past 
ten  before  he  gained  the  green-gleaming  and  foam- 
whitened  pool,  sunk  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  gray  rock  over 
whose  flat  top  three  pine-trees  swayed  in  the  fresh  breeze. 
Under  them,  looking  to  the  child  like  a  white  cloud  in  a 
green  sky,  stood  a  beautiful  young  man,  poised  on  the 
sheer  brink  for  a  dive.  A  single  instant  he  stood  there, 
clad  only  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  the  next  he  had  dived 
so  expertly  that  he  scarcely  splashed  up  the  water 
around  him.  Then  his  dark,  dripping  head  rose  in  sight, 
his  glittering  arm  thrust  up,  and  he  swam  vigorously  to 
shore.  He  climbed  the  rock  for  another  dive.  These 
actions  he  repeated  in  pure  sport  and  joy  in  life  so  often 
that  his  little  spectator  became  dizzy  with  watching. 

At  length  he  had  enough  of  it  and  stooped  for  his  dis- 
carded garments.  These  he  carried  to  a  more  sheltered 
spot  and  rapidly  put  on,  the  child  still  wide-eyed  and  won- 
dering, for  indeed  he  had  much  to  occupy  his  attention. 

He  had  two  arms,  two  legs,  a  whole  face  with  eyes, 
nose,  mouth,  chin,  and  ears,  complete.  He  could  see,  for 
he  had  glanced  about  him  as  he  dressed.  He  could  speak, 
for  he  sang  loudly.  He  could  hear,  for  he  had  turned 
quickly  at  the  whir  of  pigeon-wings  behind  him.     His 


364  THE  STRANGE-LOOKING  MAN 

skin  was  smooth  all  over,  and  nowhere  on  it  were  the  dark 
scarlet  maps  which  the  child  found  so  interesting  on  the 
arms,  face,  and  breast  of  the  burned  man.  .  He  did  not 
strangle  every  little  while,  or  shiver  madly,  and  scream  at 
a  sound.  It  was  truly  inexplicable,  and  therefore  terri- 
fying. 

The  child  was  beginning  to  whimper,  to  tremble,  to  look 
wildly  about  for  his  mother,  when  the  young  man  ob- 
served him. 

"Hullo!"  he  cried  eagerly,  "if  it  isn't  a  child!  " 

He  came  forward  across  the  foot-bridge  with  a  most 
ingratiating  smile,  for  this  was  the  first  time  that  day  he 
had  seen  a  child  and  he  had  been  thinking  it  remarkable 
that  there  should  be  so  few  children  in  a  valley,  where, 
when  he  had  travelled  that  way  five  years  before,  there 
had  been  so  many  he  had  scarcely  been  able  to  find  pennies 
for  them.  So  he  cried  "  Hullo,"  quite  joyously,  and 
searched  in  his  pockets. 

But,  to  his  amazement,  the  bullet-headed  little  blond 
boy  screamed  out  in  terror,  and  fled  for  protection  into 
the  arms  of  a  hurriedly  approaching  young  Avoman.  She 
embraced  him  with  evident  relief,  and  was  lavishing 
on  him  terms  of  scolding  and  endearment  in  the  same 
breath,  when  the  traveler  came  up,  looking  as  if  his  feel- 
ings were  hurt. 

"  I  assure  you.  Madam,"  said  he,  "  that  I  only  meant 
to  give  your  Httle  boy  these  pennies."  He  examined  him- 
self with  an  air  of  wonder.  "  What  on  earth  is  there 
about  me  to  frighten  a  child  ?  "  he  queried  plaintively. 

The  young  peasant-woman  smiled  indulgently  on  them 
both,  on  the  child  now  sobbing,  his  face  buried  in  her 
skirt,  and  on  the  boyish,  perplexed,  and  beautiful  young 
man. 

"  It  is  because  he  finds  the  Herr  Traveler  so  strange- 
looking,"  she  said,  curtsying.  "  He  is  quite  small,"  she 
showed  his  smallness  with  a  gesture,  "  and  it  is  the  first 
time  he  has  even  seen  a  whole  man." 


THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT  ^ 

By  burton  KLINE 

From    The    Stratford   Journal 

BY  the  side  of  a  road  which  wanders  in  company  of 
a  stream  across  a  region  of  Pennsylvania  farmland 
that  is  called  "  Paradise  "  because  of  its  beauty,  you  may 
still  mark  the  ruins  of  a  small  brick  cabin  in  the  depths 
of  a  grove.  In  summertime  ivy  drapes  its  jagged  frag- 
ments and  the  pile  might  be  lost  to  notice  but  that  at  dusk 
the  trembling  leaves  of  the  vine  have  a  way  of  whisper- 
ing to  the  nerves  of  your  horse  and  setting  them  too  in 
a  tremble.  And  the  people  in  the  village  beyond  have  a 
belief  that  three  troubled  human  beings  lie  buried  under 
those  ruins,  and  that  at  night,  or  in  a  storm,  they  some- 
times cry. aloud  in  their  unrest. 

The  village  is  Bustlebury,  and  its  people  have  a  legend 
that  on  a  memorable  night  there  was  once  disclosed  to 
a  former  inhabitant  the  secret  of  that  ivied  sepulchre. 

All  the  afternoon  the  two  young  women  had  chattered 
in  the  parlor,  cooled  by  the  shade  of  the  portico,  and 
lost  to  the  heat  of  the  day,  to  the  few  sounds  of  the 
village,  to  the  passing  hours  themselves.  Then  of  a 
sudden  Mrs.  Pollard  was  recalled  to  herself  at  the  neces- 
sity of  closing  her  front  windows  against  a  gust  of  wind 
that  blew  the  curtains,  like  flapping  flags,  into  the  room. 

"  Sallie,  we're  going  to  get  it  again,"  she  said,  pausing 
for  a  glance  at  the  horizon  before  she  lowered  the  sash. 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Stratford  Journal.  Copyright,  1918,  by  Bur- 
ton  Kline. 

.36s 


366  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"  Get  what  ? "  Her  visitor  walked  to  the  other  front 
window  and  stooped  to  peer  out. 

Early  evening  clouds  were  drawing  a  black  cap  over 
the  fair  face  of  the  land. 

"  I  think  we're  going  to  have  some  more  of  Old 
ScreAner  Moll  this  evening.  I  knew  we  should,  after 
this  hot — " 

"There!  Margie,  that  was  the  expression  I've  been 
trying  to  remember  all  afternoon.  You  used  it  this 
morning.  Where  did  you  get  such  a  poetic  nickname  for 
a  thunder  —    O-oh !  " 

For  a  second,  noon  had  returned  to  the  two  women. 
From  their  feet  two  long  streaks  of  black  shadow  darted 
back  into  the  room,  and  vanished.  Overhead  an  octopus 
of  lightning  snatched  the  whole  heavens  in  its  grasp, 
shook  them,  and  disappeared. 

The  two  women  screamed,  and  threw  themselves  on 
the  sofa.  Yet  in  a  minute  it  was  clear  that  the  world 
still  rolled  on,  and  each  looked  at  the  other  and  laughed 
at  her  fright  —  till  the  prospect  of  an  evening  of  storm 
sobered  them  both. 

"  Mercy !  "  Mrs.  Pollard  breathed  in  discouragement. 
"  We're  in  for  another  night  of  it.  We've  had  this  sort 
of  thing  for  a  week.  And  to-night  of  all  nights,  when  I 
wanted  you  to  see  this  wonderful  country  under  the 
moon ! " 

Mrs.  Pollard,  followed  by  her  guest,  Mrs.  Reeves, 
ventured  to  the  window  timidly  again,  to  challenge  what 
part  of  the  sky  they  could  see  from  under  the  great 
portico  outside,  and  learn  its  portent  for  the  night. 

An  evil  visage  it  wore  —  a  swift  change  from  a  noon- 
day of  beaming  calm.  Now  it  was  curtained  completely 
with  blue-black  cloud,  which  sent  out  mutterings,  and 
then  long  brooding  silences  more  ominous  still  in  their 
very  concealment  of  the  night's  intentions. 

There  was  no  defence  against  it  but  to  draw  down  the 
blinds  and  shut  out  this  angry  gloom  in  the  glow  of  the 
lamps  within.     And,  with  a  half  hour  of  such  glow  to 


BURTON  KLINE  367 

cozen  them,  the  two  women  were  soon  merry  again  over 
their  reminiscences,  Mrs.  Pollard  at  her  embroidery, 
Mrs.  Reeves  at  the  piano,  strumming  something  from 
Chopin  in  the  intervals  of  their  chatter. 

"  The  girl  "  fetched  them  their  tea.  "  Five  already !  " 
Mrs.  Pollard  verified  the  punctuality  of  her  servant  with 
a  glance  at  the  clock.  "  Then  John  will  be  away  for 
another  night.  I  do  hope  he  won't  try  to  get  back  this 
time.  Night  before  last  he  left  his  assistant  with  a  case, 
and  raced  his  horse  ten  miles  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
to  get  home,"  Mrs.  Pollard  proudly  reported,  "  for  fear 
I'd  be  afraid  in  the  storm." 

"  And  married  four  years !  "  Mrs.  Reeves  smilingly 
shook  her  head  in  indulgence  of  such  long-lived  romance. 

In  the  midst  of  their  cakes  and  tea  the  bell  announced 
an  impatient  hand  at  the  door. 

"  Well,  '  speak  of  angels ! '  "  Mrs.  Pollard  quoted, 
and  flew  to  greet  her  husband.  But  she  opened  the  door 
upon  smiling  old  Mr.  Barber,  instead,  from  the  precincts 
across  the  village  street. 

Mr.  Barber  seemed  to  be  embarrassed.  "I  —  I  rather 
thought  you  mought  be  wanting  something,"  he  said  in 
words.  By  intention  he  was  making  apology  for  the 
night.  "  I  saw  the  doctor  drive  away,  but  I  haven't  seen 
him  come  back.  So  T  —  I  thought  I'd  just  run  over  and 
see  —  see  if  there  wasn't  something  you  wanted."  He 
laughed  uneasily. 

Mr.  Barber's  transparent  diplomacy  having  been  re- 
warded with  tea,  they  all  came  at  once  to  direct  speech. 
"  It  ain't  going  to  amount  to  much,"  Mr.  Barber  in- 
sisted. "  Better  come  out,  you  ladies,  and  have  a  look 
around.  It  may  rain  a  bit,  but  you'll  feel  easier  if  you 
come  and  get  acquainted  with  things,  so  to  say,"  And 
gathering  their  resolution  the  two  women  followed  him 
out  on  the  portico. 

They  shuddered  at  what  they  saw. 

Night  was  at  hand,  two  hours  before  its  time.  Noth- 
ing stirred,  not  a  vocal  chord  of  hungry,  puzzled,  fright- 


368  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

ened  chicken  or  cow.  The  whole  region  seemed  to  have 
caught  its  breath,  to  be  smothered  under  a  pall  of  still- 
ness, unbroken  except  for  some  occasional  distant  earth- 
quake of  thunder  from  the  inverted  Switzerland  of  cloud 
that  hung  pendant  from  the  sky. 

Mr.  Barber's  emotions  finally  ordered  themselves  into 
speech  as  he  watched.     "  Ain't  it  grand  !  "  he  said. 

The  two  women  made  no  reply.  They  sat  on  the 
steps  to  the  portico,  their  arms  entwined.  The  scene 
beat  their  more  sophisticated  intelligences  back  into 
silence.  Some  minutes  they  all  sat  there  together,  and 
then  again  Mr.  Barber  broke  the  spell. 

"  It  do  look  fearful,  like.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid. 
It's  better  to  be  friends  with  it,  you  might  say.  And 
then  go  to  bed  and  fergit  it." 

They  thanked  him  for  his  goodness,  bade  him  good- 
by,  and  he  clinked  down  the  flags  of  the  walk  and  started 
across  the  street. 

He  had  got  midway  across  when  they  all  heard  a 
startling  sound,  an  unearthly  cry. 

It  came  out  of  the  distance,  and  struck  the  stillness 
like  a  blow. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it,  Margie?"  Mrs.  Reeves 
whispered  excitedly. 

Faint  and  quavering  at  its  beginning,  the  cry  grew 
louder  and  more  shrill,  and  then  died  away,  as  the  breath 
that  made  it  ebbed  and  was  spent.  It  seemed  as  if  this 
unusual  night  had  found  at  last  a  voice  suited  to  its 
mood.  Twice  the  cry  was  given,  and  then  all  was  still 
as  before. 

At  its  first  notes  the  muscles  in  Mrs.  Pollard's  arm 
had  tightened.  But  Mr.  Barber  had  hastened  back  at 
once  with  reassurance. 

"  I  guess  Mrs.  Pollard  knows  what  that  is,"  he  called 
to  them  from  the  gate.  "  It's  only  our  old  friend  Moll, 
that  lives  down  there  in  the  notch.  She  gets  lonesome, 
every  thunderstorm,  and  let's  it  oflf  like  that.  It's  only 
her  rheumatiz,  I  reckon.     We  wouldn't  feel  easy  our- 


BURTON  KLINE  369 

selves  without  them  few  kind  words  from  Old  Moll ! " 
The  two  women  applauded  as  they  could  his  effort 
toward  humor.  Then,  "  Come  on,  Sallie,  quick !  "  Mrs. 
Pollard  cried  to  her  guest,  and  the  two  women  bolted  up 
the  steps  of  the  portico  and  flew  like  girls  through  the 
door,  which  they  quickly  locked  between  themselves  and 
the  disquieting  night. 

Once  safe  within,  relief  from  their  nerves  came  at  the 
simple  effort  of  laughter,  and  an  hour  later,  when  it  was 
clear  that  the  stars  still  held  to  their  courses,  the 
two  ladies  were  at  their  ease  again,  beneath  the  lamp  on 
the  table,  with  speech  and  conversation  to  provide  an  es- 
cape from  thought.  The  night  seemed  to  cool  its  high 
temper  as  the  hours  wore  on,  and  gradually  the  storm 
allowed  itself  to  be  forgotten. 

Together,  at  bed  time,  the  two  made  their  tour  of  the 
house,  locking  the  windows  and  doors,  and  visiting  the 
pantry  on  the  way  for  an  apple.  Outside  all  was  truly 
calm  and  still,  as,  with  mock  and  exaggerated  caution, 
they  peered  through  one  last  open  window.  A  periodic, 
lazy  flash  from  the  far  distance  was  all  that  the  sky 
could  muster  of  its  earlier  wrath.  And  they  tripped  up- 
stairs and  to  bed,  with  that  hilarity  which  always  at- 
tends the  feminine  pursuit  of  repose. 

But  in  the  night  they  were  awakened. 

Not  for  nothing,  after  all,  had  the  skies  marshalled 
that  afternoon  array  of  their  forces.  Now  they  were 
as  terribly  vociferous  as  they  had  been  terrifyingly  still 
before.  Leaves,  that  had  drooped  melancholy  and  mo- 
tionless in  the  afternoon,  were  whipped  from  their 
branches  at  the  snatch  of  the  wind.  The  rain  came  down 
in  a  solid  cataract.  The  thunder  was  a  steady  bombard- 
ment, and  the  frolic  powers  above,  that  had  toyed  and 
practised  with  soundless  flashes  in  the  afternoon,  had 
grown  wanton  at  their  sport,  and  hurled  their  electric 
shots  at  earth  in  appallingly  accurate  marksmanship. 
Between  the  flashes  from  the  sky,  the  steady  glare  of  a 


370  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

burning  bam  here  and  there  reddened  the  blackness. 
The  village  dead,  under  the  pelted  sod,  must  have  shud- 
dered at  the  din.  Even  the  moments  of  lull  were  sat- 
urate with  terrors.  In  them  rose  audible  the  roar  of 
waters,  the  clatter  of  frightened  animals,  the  rattle  of 
gates,  the  shouts  of  voices,  the  click  of  heels  on  the  flags 
of  the  streets,  as  the  villagers  hurried  to  the  succor  of 
neighbors  fighting  fires  out  on  the  hills.  For  long  after- 
ward the  tempest  of  that  night  was  remembered.  For 
hours  while  it  lasted,  trees  were  toppled  over,  and  houses 
rocked  to  the  blast. 

And  for  as  long  as  it  would,  the  rain  beat  in  through 
an  open  window  and  wetted  the  two  women  where  they 
lay  in  their  bed,  afraid  to  stir,  even  to  help  themselves, 
gripped  in  a  paralysis  of  terror. 

Their  nerves  were  not  the  more  disposed  to  peace, 
either,  by  another  token  of  the  storm.  All  through  the 
night,  since  their  waking,  in  moments  of  stillness  suffi- 
cient for  it  to  be  heard,  they  had  caught  that  cry  of  the 
late  afternoon.  Doggedly  it  asserted  itself  against  the 
uproar.  It  insisted  upon  being  heard.  It  too  wished  to 
shriek  relievingly,  like  the  inanimate  night,  and  publish 
its  sickness  abroad.  They  heard  it  far  off,  at  first.  But 
it  moved,  and  came  nearer.  Once  the  two  women 
quaked  when  it  came  to  them,  shrill  and  clear,  from  a 
point  close  at  hand.  But  they  bore  its  invasion  along 
with  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  lay  shameless  and  numb 
in  the  rude  arms  of  the  night. 

They  lay  so  till  deliverance  from  the  hideous  spell 
came  at  last,  in  a  vigorous  pounding  at  the  front  door. 

"  It's  John !  "  Mrs.  Pollard  cried  in  her  joy.  "  And 
through  such  a  storm ! " 

She  slipped  from  the  bed,  threw  a  damp  blanket  about 
her,  and  groped  her  way  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
stair,  her  guest  stumbling  after.  They  scarcely  could 
fly  fast  enough  down  the  dark  steps.  At  the  bottom  Mrs. 
Pollard  turned  brighter  the  dimly  burning  entry  lamp, 


BURTON  KLINE  37i 

shot  back  the  bolt  with  fingers  barely  able  to  grasp  it  in 
their  eagerness,  and  threw  open  the  door. 

"  John  !  "  she  cried. 

But  there  moved  into  the  house  the  tall  and  thin  but 
heavily  framed  figure  of  an  old  woman,  who  peered 
about  in  confusion. 

In  a  flash  of  recognition  Mrs.  Pollard  hurled  herself 
against  the  intruder  to  thrust  her  out. 

"  No !  "  the  woman  said.  "  No,  you  will  not,  on  such 
a  night!  "  And  the  apparition  herself,  looking  with  fev- 
erish curiosity  at  her  unwilling  hostesses,  slowly  closed 
the  door  and  leaned  against  it. 

Mrs.  Pollard  and  her  friend  turned  to  fly,  in  a  mad 
instinct  to  be  anywhere  behind  a  locked  door.  Yet  be- 
fore the  instinct  could  reach  their  muscles,  the  unbidden 
visitor  stopped  them  again. 

"  No !  "  she  said.     "  I  am  dying.     Help  me  !  " 

The  two  women  turned,  as  if  hypnotically  obedient  to 
her  command.  Their  tongues  lay  thick  and  dead  in  their 
mouths.  They  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  their 
caller  stood  looking  them  over,  with  the  same  fevered 
curiosity.  Then  she  turned  her  deliberate  scrutiny  to  the 
house  itself. 

In  a  moment  she  almost  reassured  them  with  a  first 
token  of  being  human  and  feminine.  On  the  table  by 
the  stairs  lay  a  book,  and  she  went  and  picked  it  up. 
"  Fine !  "  she  mused.  Then  her  eye  travelled  over  the 
pictures  on  the  walls.  "  Fine !  "  she  said.  "  So  this  is 
the  inside  of  a  fine  house !  "  But  suddenly,  as  her  peer- 
ing gaze  returned  to  the  two  women,  she  was  recalled  to 
herself.  "But  you  wanted  to  put  me  out  —  on  a  night 
like  this !     Hear  it !  " 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  them  in  frank  hatred. 
And  on  an  impulse  she  revenged  herself  upon  them  by 
sounding,  in  their  very  ears,  the  shrill  cry  they  had  heard 
in  the  afternoon,  and  through  the  night,  that  had  mysti- 
fied the  villagers  for  years  from  the  grove.     The  house 


372  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

rang  with  it,  and  with  the  hard  peal  of  laughter  that 
finished  it. 

All  three  of  them  stood  there,  for  an  instant,  viewing 
each  other.  But  at  the  end  of  it  the  weakest  of  them 
was  the  partly  sibylline,  partly  mountebank  intruder. 
She  swayed  back  against  the  wall.  Her  head  rolled 
limply  to  one  side,  and  she  moaned,  "  O  God,  how  tired 
I  am  to-night !  " 

Frightened  as  they  still  were,  their  runaway  hearts 
beating  a  tattoo  that  was  almost  audible,  the  two 
other  women  made  a  move  to  support  her.  But  she 
waved  them  back  with  a  suddenly  returning  air  of 
command.  "  No !  "  she  said.  "  You  wanted  to  put  me 
out !  " 

The  creature  wore  some  sort  of  thin  skirt  whose 
color  had  vanished  in  the  blue-black  of  its  wetness. 
Over  her  head  and  shoulders  was  thrown  a  ragged  piece 
of  shawl.  From  under  it  dangled  strands  of  grizzled 
gray  hair.  Her  dark  eyes  were  hidden  in  the  shadows  of 
her  impromptu  hood.  The  hollows  of  her  cheeks  looked 
deeper  in  its  shadows. 

She  loosed  the  shawl  from  her  head,  and  it  dropped 
to  the  floor,  disclosing  a  face  like  one  of  the  Fates.  She 
folded  her  arms,  and  there  was  a  rude  majesty  in  the 
massive  figure  and  its  bearing  as  she  tried  to  command 
herself  and  speak. 

"  I  come  here  —  in  this  storm.  Hear  it !  Hear  that ! 
I  want  shelter.  I  want  comfort.  And  what  do  you  say 
to  me !  .  .  .  Well,  then  I  take  comfort  from  you.  You 
thought  I  was  your  husband.  You  called  his  name. 
Well,  I  saw  him  this  afternoon.  He  drove  out.  I  called 
to  him  from  the  roadside.  *  Let  me  tell  your  fortune ! 
Only  fifty  cent ! '  But  he  whipped  up  his  horse  and 
drove  away.  You  are  all  alike.  But  I  see  him  now  — 
in  Woodman's  Narrows.  It  rains  there,  same  as  here. 
Thunder  and  lightning,  same  as  here.  Trees  fall.  The 
wind  blows.     The  wind  blows  !  " 

The  woman  had  tilted  her  head  and  fixed  her  eyes, 


BURTON  KLINE  373 

shining  and  eager,  as  if  on  some  invisible  scene,  and  she 
half  intoned  her  words  as  if  in  a  trance. 

"  I  see  your  husband  now.  His  wagon  is  smashed  by 
a  tree.  The  horse  is  dead.  Your  husband  hes  very  still. 
He  does  not  move.  There !  "  —  she  turned  to  them  alert 
again  to  their  presence  — "  there  is  the  husband  that  you 
want.  If  you  don't  believe  me,  all  I  say  is,  wait!  He 
is  there.     You  will  see !  " 

She  ended  in  a  peal  of  laughter,  which  itself  ended  in 
a  weary  moan.  "  Oh,  why  can't  you  help  me !  "  She 
came  toward  them,  her  arms  outstretched.  "Don't  be 
afraid  of  me.  I  want  a  woman  to  know  me  —  to  com- 
fort me.  I  die  to-night.  It's  calling  me,  outside.  Don't 
you  hear?  .  .  . 

"  Listen  to  me,  you  women !  "  she  went  on,  and  tried  to 
smile,  to  gain  their  favor.  "  I  lied  to  you,  to  get  even 
with  you.  You  want  your  husband.  Well,  I  lied.  He 
isn't  dead.  For  all  you  tried  to  shut  me  out.  Do  you 
never  pity?     Do  you  never  help?     O-oh  — " 

Her  hand  traveled  over  her  brow,  and  her  eyes  wan- 
dered. 

"  No  one  knows  what  I  need  now !  I  got  to  tell  it, 
I  got  to  tell  it !  Hear  that  ? "  There  had  been  a 
louder  and  nearer  crash  outside.  "  That's  my  warning. 
That  says  I  got  to  tell  it,  before  it's  too  late.  No 
storm  like  this  for  forty  years  —  not  since  one  night  forty 
years  ago.  My  God,  that  night !  "  Another  heavy  rum- 
ble interrupted  her.  "  Yes,  yes !  "  she  turned  and  called. 
"  I'll  tell  it !     I  promise !  " 

She  came  toward  her  audience  and  said  pleadingly, 
"  Listen  —  even  if  it  frightens  you.  You've  got  to  listen. 
That  night,  forty  years  ago  " —  she  peered  about  her 
cautiously  — "  I  think  —  I  think  I  hurt  two  people  — 
hurt  them  very  bad.     And  ever  since  that  night  — " 

The  two  women  had  once  again  tried  to  fly  away,  but 
again  she  halted  them.  "  Listen !  You  have  no  right  to 
nm  away.  You  got  to  comfort  me!  You  hear? 
Please,  please,  don't -go." 


374  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

She  smiled,  and  so  seemed  less  ugly.  What  could  her 
two  auditors  do  but  cling  to  each  other  and  hear  her 
through,  dumb  and  helpless  beneath  her  spell? 

"  Only  wait.  I'll  tell  you  quickly.  Oh,  I  was  not  al- 
ways like  this.  Once  I  could  talk  —  elegant  too.  I've 
almost  forgotten  now.  But  I  never  looked  like  this 
then.  I  was  not  always  ugly  —  no  teeth  —  gray  hair. 
Once  I  was  beautiful  too.  You  laugh?  But  yes!  Ah, 
I  was  young,  and  tall,  and  had  long  black  hair.  I  was 
Mollie,  then.  Mollie  Morgan.  That's  the  first  time  I've 
said  my  name  for  years.  But  that's  who  I  was.  Ask 
Bruce  —  he  knows." 

She  had  fallen  back  against  the  wall  again,  her  eyes 
roaming  as  she  remembered.  Here  she  laughed.  "  But 
Bruce  is  dead  these  many  years.  He  was  my  dog."  A 
long  pause.  "  We  played  together.  Among  the  flowers 
—  in  the  pretty  cottage  —  under  the  vines.  Not  far 
from  here.  But  all  gone  now,  all  gone.  Even  the  woods 
are  gone  —  the  woods  where  Bruce  and  I  hunted  ber- 
ries.    And  my  mother  !  " 

Again  the  restless  hands  sought  the  face  and  covered  it. 

"  My  mother !  Almost  as  young  as  I.  And  how  she 
could  talk!  A  fine  lady.  As  fine  as  you.  And  oh,  we 
had  good  times  together.  Nearly  always.  Sometimes 
mother  got  angry  —  in  a  rage.  She'd  strike  me,  and  say 
I  was  an  idiot  like  my  father.  The  next  minute  she'd 
hug  me,  and  cry,  and  beg  me  to  forgive  her.  It  all  comes 
back  to  me.  Those  were  the  days  when  she'd  bake  a  cake 
for  supper  —  the  days  when  she  cried,  and  put  on  a  black 
dress.  But  mostly  she  wore  the  fine  dresses  —  all  bright, 
and  soft,  and  full  of  flowers.  Oh.  how  she  would  dance 
about  in  those,  sometimes.  And  always  laughed  when  I 
stared  at  her.  And  say  I  was  Ned's  girl  to  my  finger- 
tips.    I  never  understood  what  she  meant  —  then." 

The  shrill  speaker  of  a  moment  before  had  softened 
suddenly.  The  creature  of  the  woods  sniflFed  eagerly 
this  atmosphere  of  the  house,  and  faint  vestiges  of  a 


BURTON  KLINE  375 

former  personage  returned  to  her,  summoned  along  with 
the  scene  she  had  set  herself  to  recall. 

"  But  oh,  how  good  she  was  to  me !  And  read  to  me. 
And  taught  me  to  read.  And  careful  of  me?  Ha! 
Never  let  me  go  alone  to  the  village.  Said  I  was  too 
good  for  such  a  place.  Some  day  we  would  go  back  to 
the  world  —  whatever  she  meant  by  that.  Said  people 
there  would  clap  the  hands  when  they  saw  me  —  more 
than  they  had  clapped  the  hands  for  her.  Once  she  saw 
a  young  man  walk  along  the  road  with  me.  Oh,  how 
she  beat  my  head  when  I  came  home !  Nearly  killed  me, 
she  was  so  angry.  Said  I  mustn't  waste  myself  on  such 
trash.     My  mother  —  I  never  understood  her  then. 

"  She  used  to  tell  me  stories  —  about  New  York,  and 
Phil'delph.  Many  big  cities.  There  they  applaud,  and 
clap  the  hands,  when  my  mother  was  a  queen,  or  a  beg- 
gar girl,  in  the  theatre,  and  make  love  and  kill  and  fight. 
Have  grand  supper  in  hotel  afterward.  And  I'd  ask  my 
mother  how  soon  I  too  may  be  a  queen.  And  she'd  give 
me  to  learn  the  words  they  say,  and  I'd  say  them. 
Then  she'd  clap  me  on  the  head  again  and  tell  me,  '  Oh, 
you're  Ned's  girl.  You're  a  blockhead,  just  like  your 
father!'  And  I'd  say,  'Where  is  my  father?  Why 
does  he  never  come?'  And  after  that  my  mother  would 
always  sit  quiet,  and  never  answer  when  I  talked. 

"  And  then  she'd  be  kind  again,  and  make  me  proud, 
and  tell  me  I'm  a  very  fine  lady,  and  have  fine  blood. 
And  she'd  talk  about  the  day  when  we'd  go  back  to  the 
world,  and  she'd  buy  me  pretty  things  to  wear.  But  I 
thought  it  was  fine  where  we  were  —  there  in  the  cot- 
tage, I  with  the  flowers,  and  Bruce.  In  those  days,  yes," 
the  woman  sighed,  and  left  them  to  silence  for  a  space, — 
for  silent  seemed  the  wind  and  rain,  on  the  breaking  of 
her  speech. 

A  rumble  from  without  started  her  on  again. 

"  Yes,  yes !  I'm  telling !  I'll  hurry.  Then  I  grow 
big.     Seventeen.     My  mother  call  me  her  little  giantess, 


376  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

her  handsome  darling,  her  conceited  fool,  all  at  the  same 
time.     I  never  understood  my  mother  —  then. 

"  But  then,  one  day,  it  came !  " 

The  woman  pressed  her  fingers  against  her  eyes,  as  if 
to  shut  out  the  vision  her  mind  was  preparing. 

"  Everything  changed  then.  Everything  was  different. 
No  more  nights  with  stories  and  books.  No  more  about 
New  York  and  Phil'delph.     Never  again. 

"  I  was  out  in  the  yard  one  day,  on  my  knees,  with  the 
flowers.  It  was  Springtime,  and  I  was  digging  and  fix- 
ing. And  I  heard  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  road.  A  run- 
away, I  thought  at  first.  I  stood  up  to  look,  and  — " 
She  faltered,  and  then  choked  out,  "  I  stood  up  to  look, 
and  the  man  came ! "  And  with  the  words  came  a 
crash  that  rocked  the  house. 

"  Hear  that !  "  the  woman  almost  shrieked.  "  That's 
him  —  that's  the  man.     I  hear  him  in  every  storm !  .  .  . 

"  He  came,"  she  went,  more  rapidly.  "  A  tall  man  — 
fine  —  dressed  in  fine  clothes  —  brown  hair  —  brown 
eyes !  Oh,  I  often  see  those  brown  eyes.  I  know  what 
they  are  like.  He  came  riding  along  the  bye-road. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  my  mother  he  almost  fell  from 
his  horse.  The  horse  nearly  fell,  the  man  pulled  him  in 
so  sharp.  '  Good  God ! '  the  man  said.  '  Fanny !  Is 
this  where  you  are !  Curse  you,  old  girl,  is  this  where 
you  are ! '  Funny,  how  I  remember  his  words.  And 
then  he  came  in. 

"  And  he  talked  to  my  mother  a  long  time.  Then  he 
looked  round  and  said,  '  So  this  is  where  you've  crawled 
to!'  And  he  petted  Bruce.  And  then  he  came  to  me, 
and  looked  into  my  face  a  long  time,  and  said,  '  So  this 
is  his  girl,  eh?  Fanny  junior,  down  to  the  last  eyelash! 
Come  here,  puss ! '  he  said.  And  I  made  a  face  at  him. 
And  he  put  his  hands  to  his  sides  and  laughed  and 
laughed  at  me.  And  he  turned  to  my  mother  and  said, 
'  Fanny,  Fanny,  what  a  queen ! '  I  thought  he  meant  be 
a  queen  in  the  theatre.  But  he  meant  something  else. 
He  came  to  me  again,  and  squeezed  me  and  pressed  his 


BURTON  KLINE  377 

face  against  mine.  And  my  mother  ran  and  snatched 
him  away.     And  I  ran  behind  the  house. 

"  And  by-and-by  my  mother  came  to  find  me,  and  said, 
'  Oho,  my  httle  giantess !  So  here  you  are !  What  are 
you  trembling  for  ! '  And  she  kicked  me.  '  Take  that ! ' 
she  said. 

"  And  I  didn't  understand  —  not  then.  But  I  under- 
stand now. 

"  Next  day  the  man  came  again,  and  talked  to  my 
mother.  But  I  saw  him  look  and  look  at  me.  And  by- 
and-by  he  reached  for  my  hand.  And  my  mother  said, 
'  Stop  that !  None  of  that,  my  little  George !  One  at  a 
time,  if  you  please ! '  And  he  laughed  and  let  me  go. 
And  they  went  out  and  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  yard.  And 
the  man  stroked  my  mother's  hair.  And  I  watched  and 
listened.  They  talked  a  long  time  till  it  was  night.  And 
I  heard  George  say,  '  Well,  Fanny,  old  girl,  we  did  for 
him,  all  right,  didn't  we  ? '  I've  always  remembered  it. 
And  they  laughed  and  they  laughed.  Then  the  man 
said,  '  God,  how  it  does  scare  me,  sometimes ! '  And  my 
mother  laughed  at  him  for  that.  And  George  said, 
'  Look  what  I've  had  to  give  up.  And  you  penned  up 
here!  But  never  mind.  It  will  blow  over.  Then  we'll 
crawl  back  to  the  old  world,  eh,  Fanny?  '  " 

All  this  the  woman  had  rattled  ofif  like  a  child  with  a 
recitation,  as  something  learned  long  ago  and  long 
rehearsed  against  just  this  last  contingency  of  con- 
fession. 

"  Oh,  I  remember  it !  "  she  said,  as  if  her  volubility 
needed  an  explanation.  "  It  took  me  a  long  time  to 
understand.     But  one  day  I  understood. 

"  He  came  often,  then  —  George  did.  And  I  was  not 
afraid  of  him  any  more.  He  was  fine,  like  my  mother. 
Every  time  I  saw  him  come  my  stomach  would  give  a 
jump.  And  I  liked  to  have  him  put  his  face  against 
mine,  the  way  I'd  seen  him  do  to  mother.  And  .every 
time  he  went  away  I'd  watch  him  from  the  hilltop  till  I 
couldn't  see  him  any   more.     And  at  night  I   couldn't 


378  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

sleep.  And  George  came  very  often  —  to  see  me,  he 
told  me,  and  not  my  mother. 

"  And  my  mother  was  changed  then.  She  never  hit 
me  again,  because  George  said  he'd  kill  her  if  she 
did.  But  she  acted  very  strange  when  he  told  her  that, 
and  looked  and  looked  at  me.  And  didn't  speak  to  me 
for  days  and  days.  But  I  didn't  mind  —  I  could  talk 
to  George.  And  we'd  go  for  long  walks,  and  he'd  tell 
me  more  about  New  York  and  Phil'delph  —  more  than 
my  mother  could  tell.  Oh,  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk. 
And  he  said  such  nice  things  to  me  —  such  nice  things 
to  me !  Bruce  —  I  forgot  all  about  Bruce.  Oh,  I  was 
happy !  .  .  .  But  that  was  because  I  knew  nothing.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  I  pleased  George.  But  by-and-by  he  changed 
too.  Then  I  couldn't  say  anything  that  he  liked. 
'  Stupid  child ! '  he  called  me.  I  tried,  ever  so  hard,  to 
please  him.  But  it  was  like  walking  against  a  wind, 
that  you  can't  push  aside.  You  women,  you  just  guess 
how  I  felt  then !  You  just  guess !  You  want  your  hus- 
band. It  was  the  same  with  me.  I  want  George.  But 
he  wouldn't  listen  to  me  no  more." 

The  woman  seemed  to  sink,  to  shrivel,  under  the 
weight  of  her  recollection.  Finding  her  not  a  monster 
but  a  woman  after  all,  her  two  hearers  were  moved  to 
another  slight  token  of  sympathy.  They  were  "  guess- 
ing," as  she  commanded.  But  still,  with  a  kind  of  weary 
magnanimity,  she  waved  them  back,  away  from  the  things 
she  had  yet  to  make  clear. 

"  But  one  day  I  saw  it.  One  day  I  saw  something.  I 
came  home  with  my  berries,  and  George  was  there.  His 
breath  was  funny,  and  he  talked  funny,  and  walked 
funny.  I'd  seen  people  in  the  village  that  way.  But  — 
my  mother  was  that  way,  too.  She  looked  funny  —  had 
very  red  cheeks,  and  talked  very  fast.  Very  foolish. 
And  her  breath  was  the  same  as  George's.  And  she 
laughed  and  laughed  at  me,  and  made  fun  of  me. 

"  I  said  nothing.  But  I  didn't  sleep  that  night.  I 
wondered  what  would  happen.     Many  days  I  thought  of 


BURTON  KLINE  379 

what  was  Happening.  Then  I  knew.  My  mother  was 
trying  to  get  George  away  from  me.  That  was  what  had 
happened. 

"  Another  day  I  came  back  with  my  berries,  and  my 
mother  was  not  there.  Neither  was  George  there.  So ! 
She  had  taken  George  away.  My  George.  Well !  I 
set  out  to  look.  No  rest  for  me  till  I  find  them.  I 
knew  pretty  well  where  they  might  be.  I  started  for 
George's  little  brick  house  down  in  the  hollow.  That's 
where  he  had  taken  to  living  —  hunting  and  fishing.  It 
was  late  —  the  brick  house  was  far  away  —  I  was  very 
tired.     But  I  went.     And  — " 

She  had  been  speaking  more  rapidly.  Here  she 
stopped  to  breathe,  to  swallow,  to  collect  herself  for  the 
final  plunge. 

"  I  heard  a  runaway  horse.  '  George's  horse ! '  I  said. 
*  George  is  coming  back  to  me,  after  all !  George  is 
coming  back  to  me !  She  can't  keep  him ! '  And,  yes,  it 
was  George's  horse.  But  nobody  on  him.  I  was  so 
scared  I  could  hardly  stand.  Something  had  happened  to 
George.  Only  then  did  I  know  how  much  I  wanted  him 
—  when  something  had  happened  to  him.  I  almost  fell 
down  in  the  road,  but  I  crawled  on.  And  presently  I 
came  to  him,  to  George.  He  was  walking  in  the  road, 
limping  and  stumbling  and  rolling  —  all  muddy  —  singing 
to  himself.  He  didn't  know  me  at  first.  I  ran  to  him  — 
to  my  George.  And  he  grabbed  me,  and  stumbled,  and 
fell.  And  he  grabbed  my  ankle.  '  Come  to  me,  liT 
one ! '  he  said.  '  Damn  the  old  hag ! '  he  said.  '  It's  the 
girl  I  want  —  Ned's  own  ! '  he  said.  '  Come  here  to  me, 
Ned's  own.  I  want  you  ! '  And  he  pinched  me.  He  bit 
my  hand.  And  —  and  I  — all  of  a  sudden  I  was 
afraid. 

"  And  I  snatched  myself  loose.  '  George ! '  I  screamed. 
'No!'  I  said  —  I  don't  know  why.  I  was  very  scared. 
I  was  wild.  I  kicked  away  —  and  ran  —  ran,  ran  — 
away  —  I  don't  know  where  —  to  the  woods.  And  oh, 
a  long  time  I  heard  George  laugh  at  me.     *  Just  like  the 


38o  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

very  old  Ned ! '  I  heard  him  shout.  But  I  ran,  till  I 
fell  down  tired.     And  there  I  sat  and  thought. 

"  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  understood.  AH  at  once  I 
knew  many  things.  I  knew  then  what  my  mother  had 
said  about  Ned  sometimes.  He  was  my  father.  He 
was  dead.  Somebody  had  killed  him,  I  knew  —  I  knew 
it  from  what  they  said.  George  knew  my  father,  then, 
too.  What  did  he  know  ?  That  was  it !  He  —  he  was 
the  man  that  killed  my  father.  He  was  after  my  mother 
then  —  he  had  been  after  her  before,  and  made  her 
breathe  funny,  made  a  fool  of  her.  That  was  why  my 
beautiful  mother  was  so  strange  to  me  sometimes. 
That's  why  there  was  no  more  New  York  and  Phil'delph. 
George  did  that  —  spoiled  everything.  Now  he  was  back 
—  making  a  fool  of  her  again  —  my  mother !  And 
wanted  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  Oh,  then  I  knew !  That 
man !  And  I  had  liked  him.  His  brown  hair,  his  brown 
eyes !     But  oh,  I  understood,  I  understood. 

"  I  got  up  from  the  ground.  Everything  reeled  and 
fell  apart.  There  was  nothing  more  for  me.  Every- 
thing spoiled.  Our  pretty  cottage  —  the  stories  —  all 
gone.  Spoiled.  So  I  ran  back.  Maybe  I  could  bring 
my  mother  back.  Maybe  I  could  save  something.  Ob, 
I  was  sick.  The  trees,  they  bent  and  rolled  the  way 
George  walked.  The  wind  bent  them  double.  They 
held  their  stomachs,  as  if  they  were  George,  laughing  at 
me.  They  seemed  to  holler  '  Ned's  girl ! '  at  me.  I  was 
dizzy,  and  the  wind  nearly  blew  me  over.  But  I  had  to 
hurry  home. 

"  I  got  near.  No  one  there.  Not  even  George.  But 
I  had  to  find  my  beautiful  little  mother.  All  round  I 
ran.  The  brambles  threw  me  down.  I  fell  over  a  stump 
and  struck  my  face.  I  could  feel  the  blood  running 
down  over  my  cheeks.  It  was  warmer  than  the  rain. 
No  matter,  I  had  to  find  my  mother.  My  poor  little 
mother. 

"  Bruce  "growled  at  me  when  I  got  to  the  house.  He 
didn't  know  me.     That's  how  I  looked !     But  there  was  a 


BURTON  KLINE  381 

light  in  the  house.  Yes,  my  mother  was  there!  But 
George  was  there,  too.  That  man!  They  had  bundles 
all  ready  to  go  away.  They  weren't  glad  to  see  me.  I 
got  there  too  soon.  George  said,  '  Damn  her  soul !  Al- 
ways that  girl  of  Ned's!  I'll  show  her!'  And  he 
kicked  me. 

"  George  kicked  me !  .  .  . 

"  But  my  mother  —  she  didn't  laugh  when  she  saw 
me.  She  was  very  scared.  She  shook  George,  and  said, 
'  George !  Come  away,  quick !  Look  at  her  face !  Look 
at  her  eyes  ! '  she  said. 

"  Oh,  my  mother,  my  little  mother.  She  thought  I 
would  hurt  her.  Even  when  she'd  been  such  a  fool.  I 
was  the  one  that  had  to  take  care  of  her,  then.  But  she 
wanted  to  go  away  —  witli  that  man !  That  made  me 
wild. 

"  '  You,  George  ! '  I  said,  '  You've  got  to  go  !  You've 
—  you've  done  too  much  to  us ! '  I  said.  '  You  go ! ' 
And  '  Mother ! '  I  said.  '  You've  got  to  leave  him ! 
He's  done  too  much  to  us ! '  I  said. 

"  She  only  answered,  '  George,  come,  quick ! '  And  she 
dragged  George  toward  the  door.  And  George  laughed 
at  me.  Laughed  and  laughed  —  till  he  saw  my  eyes.  He 
didn't  laugh  then.  Nor  my  mother.  My  mother 
screamed  when  she  saw  my  eyes.  '  Shut  up,  George ! ' 
she  screamed.  '  She's  not  Ned's  girl  now ! '  And 
George  said,  *  No,  by  God !  She's  your  brat  now,  all 
right !     She's  the  devil's  own  ! ' 

"  And  they  ran  for  the  door.  I  tried  to  get  there  first, 
to  catch  my  little  mother.  My  mother  only  screamed, 
as  if  she  were  wild.  And  they  got  out  —  out  in  the 
dark.  '  Mother ! '  I  cried.  '  Mother !  Come  back,  come 
back !  *     No  answer.     My  mother  was  gone. 

"  Oh,  that  made  me  feel,  somehow,  very  strong.  *  I'll 
bring  you  back!'  I  shouted.  'You,  George!  I'll  send 
you  away.  Wait  and  see ! '  They  never  answered. 
Maybe  they  never  heard.  The  wind  was  blowing,  like 
to-night. 


382  THE  CALLER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"  But  I  knew  where  I  could  find  them.  I  knew  where 
to  go  to  find  George.  And  I  ran  to  my  loft,  for  my 
knife.  But,  O  my  God,  when  I  saw  poor  Mollie  in  the 
glass!  Teeth  gone.  I  wasn't  beautiful  any  more.  And 
my  eyes!  —  they  came  out  of  the  glass  at  me,  like  two 
big  dogs  jumping  a  fence.  I  ran  from  them.  I  didn't 
know  myself.  I  ran  out  of  the  door,  in  the  night.  I 
went  after  that  man.  He  had  done  too  much.  That 
storm  —  the  lightning  that  night!  Awful!  But  no 
storm  kept  me  back.  Rain  —  hail  —  but  I  kept  on. 
Trees  fell  —  but  I  went  on.  I  called  out.  I  laughed 
then,  myself.  I'll  get  him !  I  say,  '  Look  out  for  Ned's 
girl !     Look  out  for  Ned's  girl ! '  I  say.  ... 

Unconsciou.sly  the  woman  was  re-enacting  every  ges- 
ture, repeating  every  phrase  and  accent  of  her  journey 
through  the  night,  that  excursion  out  of  the  world,  from 
which  there  had  been  no  return  for  her.  "  Look  out 
for  Ned's  girl!" — the  house  rang  with  the  cry.  But 
this  second  journey,  of  the  memory,  ended  in  a  moan 
and  a  faint. 

"  I  said  I  would  tell  it !     Help  me !  "  she  said. 

In  some  fashion  they  worked  her  heavy  bulk  out  of  its 
crazy  wrappings  and  into  a  bed.  John  arrived,  to  help 
them.  Morning  peered  timidly  over  the  eastern  hills, 
as  if  fearful  of  beholding  what  the  night  had  wrought. 
In  its  smiling  calm  the  noise  of  the  storm  was  already 
done  away.  But  the  storm  in  the  troubled  mind  raged 
on. 

For  days  it  raged,  in  fever  and  delirium.  Then  they 
buried  the  rude  minister  of  justice  in  the  place  where  she 
commanded  —  under  the  pile  of  broken  stones  and  bricks 
among  the  trees  in  the  hollow.  And  it  is  said  that  the 
inquisitive  villagers  who  had  a  part  in  the  simple  cere- 
monies stirred  about  till  they  made  the  discovery  of  two 
skeletons  under  the  ruins.  And  to  this  day  there  are 
persons  in  Bustlebury  with  a  belief  that  at  night,  or  in  a 
storm,  they  sometimes  hear  a  long-drawn  cry  issuing 
from  that  lonely  little  hollow. 


THE  INTERVAL^ 

By  VINCENT  O'SULLIVAN 

From    The   Boston  Evening   Transcript 

MRS.  WILTON  passed  through  a  little  alley  lead- 
ing from  one  of  the  gates  which  are  around  Re- 
gent's Park,  and  came  out  on  the  wide  and  quiet  street. 
She  walked  along  slowly,  peering  anxiously  from  side  to 
side  so  as  not  to  overlook  the  number.  She  pulled  her 
furs  closer  round  her ;  after  her  years  in  India  this  Lon- 
don damp  seemed  very  harsh.  Still,  it  was  not  a  fog 
to-day.  A  dense  haze,  gray  and  tinged  ruddy,  lay  be- 
tween the  houses,  sometimes  blowing  with  a  little  wet 
kiss  against  the  face.  Mrs.  Wilton's  hair  and  eyelashes 
and  her  furs  were  powdered  with  tiny  drops.  But  there 
was  nothing  in  the  weather  to  blur  the  sight;  she  could 
see  the  faces  of  people  some  distance  off  and  read  the 
signs  on  the  shops. 

Before  the  door  of  a  dealer  in  antiques  and  second- 
hand furniture  she  paused  and  looked  through  the  shabby 
uncleaned  window  at  an  unassorted  heap  of  things,  many 
of  them  of  great  value.  She  read  the  Polish  name  fas- 
tened on  the  pane  in  white  letters. 

"  Yes ;  this  is  the  place." 

She  opened  the  door,  which  met  her  entrance  with  an 
ill-tempered  jangle.  From'  somewhere  in  the  black 
depths  of  the  shop  the  dealer  came  forward.  lie  had  a 
clammy  white  face,  with  a  sparse  black  beard,  and  wore 
a  skull  cap  and  spectacles.  Mrs.  Wilton  spoke  to  him 
in  a  low  voice. 

1  Copyright,    1917,    by    The    Boston    Transcript   Co.     Copyright,    1918,    by 
Vincent  O  Sullivan. 

383 


384  THE  INTERVAL 

A  look  of  complicity,  of  cunning,  perhaps  of  irony, 
passed  through  the  dealer's  cynical  and  sad  eyes.  But  he 
bowed  gravely  and  respectfully. 

"  Yes,  she  is  here,  madam.  Whether  she  will  see  you 
or  not  I  do  not  know.  She  is  not  always  well ;  she  has 
her  moods.  And  then,  we  have  to  be  so  careful.  The 
police  —  Not  that  they  would  touch  a  lady  like  you. 
But  the  poor  alien  has  not  much  chance  these  days." 

Mrs.  VVilton  followed  him  to  the  back  of  the  shop, 
where  there  was  a  winding  staircase.  She  knocked  over 
a  few  things  in  her  passage  and  stooped  to  pick  them  up, 
but  the  dealer  kept  nuittering,  "  It  does  not  matter  — 
surely  it  does  not  matter."     He  lit  a  candle. 

"  You  must  go  up  these  stairs.  They  are  very  dark ; 
be  careful.  When  you  come  to  a  door,  open  it  and  go 
straight  in." 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  holding  the  light 
high  above  his  head  as  she  ascended. 

The  room  was  not  very  large,  and  it  seemed  very 
ordinary.  There  were  some  flimsy,  uncomfortable  chairs 
in  gilt  and  red.  Two  large  palms  were  in  corners. 
Under  a  glass  cover  on  the  table  was  a  view  of  Rome. 
The  room  had  not  a  business-like  look,  thought  Mrs.  Wil- 
ton ;  there  was  no  suggestion  of  the  office  or  waiting- 
room  where  people  came  and  went  all  day ;  yet  you  would 
not  say  that  it  was  a  private  room  which  was  lived  in. 
There  were  no  books  or  papers  about;  every  chair  was 
in  the  place  it  had  been  placed  when  the  room  was  last 
swept;  there  was  no  fire  and  it  was  very  cold. 

To  the  right  of  the  window  was  a  door  covered  with 
a  plush  curtain.  Mrs.  Wilton  sat  down  near  the  table 
and  watched  this  door.  She  thought  it  must  be  through 
it  that  the  soothsayer  would  come  forth.  She  laid  her 
hands  listlessly  one  on  top  of  the  other  on  the  table. 
This  must  be  the  tenth  seer  .she  had  consulterl  since  Hugh 
had  been  killed.     She  thought  them  over.     No,  this  must 


VINCENT  O'SULLIVAN  385 

be  the  eleventh.  She  had  forgotten  that  frightening  man 
in  Paris  who  said  he  had  been  a  priest.  Yet  of  them  all 
it  was  only  he  who  had  told  her  anything  definite.  But 
even  he  could  do  no  more  than  tell  the  past.  He  told  of 
her  marriage ;  he  even  had  the  duration  of  it  right  — 
twenty-one  months.  He  told  too  of  their  time  in  India 
—  at  least,  he  knew  that  her  husband  had  been  a  soldier, 
and  said  he  had  been  on  service  in  the  "  colonies."  On 
the  whole,  though,  he  had  been  as  unsatisfactory  as  the 
others.  None  of  them  had  given  her  the  consolation  she 
sought.  She  did  not  want  to  be  told  of  the  past.  If 
Hugh  was  gone  forever,  then  with  him  had  gone  all  her 
love  of  living,  her  courage,  all  her  better  self.  She 
wanted  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  despair,  the  dazed  aimless 
drifting  from  day  to  day,  longing  at  night  for  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  the  morning  for  the  fall  of  night,  which  had 
been  her  life  since  his  death.  If  somebody  could  assure 
her  that  it  was  not  all  over,  that  he  was  somewhere,  not 
too  far  away,  unchanged  from  what  he  had  been  here, 
with  his  crisp  hair  and  rather  slow  smile  and  lean  brown 
face,  that  he  saw  her  sometimes,  that  he  had  not  for- 
gotten her.  ... 

"Oh,  Hugh,  darling!"  _ 

When  she  looked  up  again  the  woman  was  sitting  there 
before  her.  Mrs.  Wilton  had  not  heard  her  come  in. 
With  her  experience,  wide  enough  now,  of  seers  and 
fortune-tellers  of  all  kinds,  she  saw  at  once  that  this 
woman  was  different  from  the  others.  She  was  used  to 
the  quick  appraising  look,  the  attempts,  sometimes 
clumsy,  but  often  cleverly  disguised,  to  collect  some 
fragments  of  information  whereupon  to  erect  a  plausible 
vision.  But  this  woman  looked  as  if  she  took  it  out  of 
herself. 

Not  that  her  appearance  suggested  intercourse  with 
the  spiritual  world  more  than  the  others  had  done ;  it 
suggested  that,  in  fact,  considerably  less.  Some  of  the 
others  were  frail,  yearning,  evaporated  creatures,  and  the 


386  THE  INTERVAL 

ex-priest  in  Paris  had  something  terrible  and  condemned 
in  his  look.  He  might  well  sup  with  the  devil,  that  man, 
and  probably  did  in  some  way  or  other. 

But  this  was  a  little  fat,  weary-faced  woman  about 
fifty,  who  only  did  not  look  like  a  cook  because  she 
looked  more  like  a  sempstress.  Her  black  dress  was  all 
covered  with  white  threads.  Mrs.  Wilton  looked  at  her 
with  some  embarrassment.  It  seemed  more  reasonable 
to  be  asking  a  woman  like  this  about  altering  a  gown 
than  about  intercourse  with  the  dead.  That  seemed  even 
absurd  in  such  a  very  commonplace  presence.  The 
woman  seemed  timid  and  oppressed ;  she  breathed  heavily 
and  kept  rubbing  her  dingy  hands,  which  looked  moist. 
one  over  the  other ;  she  was  always  wetting  her  lips,  and 
coughed  with  a  little  dry  cough.  But  in  her  these  signs 
of  nervous  exhaustion  suggested  overwork  in  a  close  at- 
mosphere, bending  too  close  over  the  sewing-machine. 
Her  uninteresting  hair,  like  a  rat's  pelt,  was  eked  out 
with  a  false  addition  of  another  color.  Some  threads 
had  got  into  her  hair  too. 

Her  harried,  uneasy  look  caused  Mrs.  Wilton  to  ask 
compassionately :  "  Are  you  much  worried  by  the  po- 
lice?" 

"  Oh,  the  police !  Why  don't  they  leave  us  alone  ? 
You  never  know  who  comes  to  see  you.  Why  don't  they 
leave  me  alone?  I'm  a  good  woman.  I  only  think. 
What  I  do  is  no  harm  to  any  one."  .  .  . 

She  continued  in  an  uneven  querulous  voice,  always 
rubbing  her  hands  together  nervously.  She  seemed  to 
the  visitor  to  be  talking  at  random,  just  gabbling,  like 
children  do  sometimes  before  they  fall  asleep. 

"  I  wanted  to  explain  — "  hesitated  Mrs.  Wilton. 

But  the  woman,  with  her  head  pressed  close  against 
the  back  of  the  chair,  was  staring  beyond  her  at  the  wall. 
Her  face  had  lost  whatever  little  expression  it  had;  it 
was  blank  and  stupid.  When  she  spoke  it  was  very 
slowly  and  her  voice  was  guttural. 

"  Can't  you  see  him  ?     It  seems  strange  to  me  that  you 


VINCENT  O'SULLIVAN  387 

can't  see  him.  He  is  so  near  you.  He  is  passing  his 
arm  round  your  shoulders." 

This  was  a  frequent  gesture  of  Hugh's.  And  indeed 
at  that  moment  she  felt  that  somebody  was  very  near 
her,  bending  over  her.  She  was  enveloped  in  tenderness. 
Only  a  very  thin  veil,  she  felt,  prevented  her  from  seeing. 
But  the  woman  saw.  She  was  describing  Hugh  min- 
utely, even  the  little  things  like  the  burn  on  his  right 
hand. 

"  Is  he  happy  ?    Oh,  ask  him  does  he  love  me  ?  " 

The  result  was  so  far  beyond  anything  she  had  hoped 
for  that  she  was  stunned.  She  could  only  stammer  the 
first  thing  that  came  into  her  head.  "  Does  he  love 
me : 

"  He  loves  you.  He  won't  answer,  but  he  loves  you. 
He  wants  me  to  make  you  see  him;  he  is  disappointed, 
I  think,  because  I  can't.  But  I  can't  unless  you  do  it 
yourself." 

After  a  while  she  said : 

"  I  think  you  will  see  him  again.  You  think  of  noth- 
ing else.     He  is  very  close  to  us  now." 

Then  she  collapsed,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep  and  lay 
there  motionless,  hardly  breathing.  Mrs.  Wilton  put 
some  notes  on  the  table  and  stole  out  on  tip-toe. 

She  seemed  to  remember  that  downstairs  in  the  dark 
shop  the  dealer  with  the  waxen  face  detained  her  to 
shew  some  old  silver  and  jewellery  and  such  like.  But 
she  did  not  come  to  herself,  she  had  no  precise  recollec- 
tion of  anything,  till  she  found  herself  entering  a  church 
near  Portland  Place.  It  was  an  unlikely  act  in  her 
normal  moments.  Why  did  she  go  in  there?  She  acted 
like  one  walking  in  her  sleep. 

The  church  was  old  and  dim,  with  high  black  pews. 
There  was  nobody  there.  Mrs.  Wilton  sat  down  in  one 
of  the  pews  and  bent  forward  with  her  face  in  her  hands. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  saw  that  a  soldier  had 
come   in    noiselessly   and   placed   himself   about   half-a- 


388  THE  INTERVAL 

dozen  rows  ahead  of  her.  He  never  turned  round ;  but 
presently  she  was  struck  by  something  familiar  in  the 
figure.  First  she  thought  vaguely  that  the  soldier  looked 
like  her  Hugh.  Then,  when  he  put  up  his  hand,  she  saw 
who  it  was. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  pew  and  ran  towards  him. 
"  Oh,  Hugh,  Hugh,  have  you  come  back?  " 

He  looked  round  with  a  smile.  He  had  not  been  killed. 
It   was    all    a   mistake.     He   was   going  to   speak.  .  .  . 

Footsteps  sounded  hollow  in  the  empty  church.  She 
turned  and  glanced  down  the  dim  aisle. 

It  was  an  old  sexton  or  verger  who  approached.  "  I 
thought  I  heard  you  call,"  he  said. 

"  I  was  speaking  to  my  husband."  But  Hugh  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  He  was  here  a  moment  ago."  She  looked  about  in 
anguish.     "  He  must  have  gone  to  the  door." 

"There's  nobody  here,"  said  the  old  man  gently. 
"  Only  you  and  me.  Ladies  are  often  taken  funny  since 
the  war.  There  was  one  in  here  yesterday  afternoon 
said  she  was  married  in  this  church  and  her  husband  had 
promised  to  meet  her  here.  Perhaps  you  were  married 
here?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Wilton,  desolately.  "  I  was  married 
in  India." 

It  might  have  been  two  or  three  days  after  that, 
when  she  went  into  a  small  Italian  restaurant  in  the 
Bayswater  district.  She  often  went  out  for  her  meals 
now :  she  had  developed  an  exhausting  cough,  and  she 
found  that  it  somehow  became  less  troublesome  when  she 
was  in  a  public  place  looking  at  strange  faces.  In  her 
flat  there  were  all  the  things  that  Hugh  had  used;  the 
trunks  and  bags  still  had  his  name  on  them  with  the 
labels  of  places  where  they  had  been  together.  They 
were  like  stabs.  In  the  restaurant,  people  came  and 
went,  many  soldiers  too  among  them,  just  glancing  at 
her  in  her  corner. 


VINCENT  O'SULLIVAN  389 

This  day,  as  it  chanced,  she  was  rather  late  and  there 
was  nobody  there.  She  was  very  tired.  She  nibbled 
at  the  food  they  brought  her.  She  could  almost  have 
cried  from  tiredness  and  loneliness  and  the  ache  in  her 
heart. 

Then  suddenly  he  was  before  her,  sitting  there  oppo- 
site at  the  table.  It  was  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  their 
engagement,  when  they  used  sometimes  to  lunch  at  res- 
taurants. He  was  not  in  uniform.  He  smiled  at  her 
and  urged  her  to  eat,  just  as  he  used  in  those  days.  .  .  . 

I  met  her  that  afternoon  as  she  was  crossing  Kensing- 
ton Gardens,  and  she  told  me  about  it. 

"  I  have  been  with  Hugh."     She  seemed  most  happy. 

"  Did  he  say  anything?  " 

"  N-no.  Yes.  I  think  he  did,  but  I  could  not  quite 
hear.    My  head  was  so  very  tired.    The  next  time " 

I  did  not  see  her  for  some  time  after  that.  She  found, 
I  think,  that  by  going  to  places  where  she  had  once  seen 
him  —  the  old  church,  the  Httle  restaurant  —  she  was 
more  certain  to  see  him  again.  She  never  saw  him  at 
home.  But  in  the  street  or  the  park  he  would  often 
walk  along  beside  her.  Once  he  saved  her  from  being 
run  over.  She  said  she  actually  felt  his  hand  grab- 
bing her  arm,  suddenly,  when  the  car  wa:s  nearly  upon 
her. 

She  had  given  me  the  address  of  the  clairvoyant ;  and 
it  is  through  that  strange  woman  that  I  know  —  or  seem 
to  know  —  what  followed. 

Mrs.  Wilton  was  not  exactly  ill  last  winter,  not  so  ill, 
at  least,  as  to  keep  to  her  bedroom.  But  she  was  very 
thin,  and  her  great  handsome  eyes  always  seemed  to  be 
staring  at  some  point  beyond,  searching.  There  was  a 
look  in  them  that  seamen's  eyes  sometimes  have  when 
they  are  drawing  on  a  coast  of  which  they  are  not  very 
certain.  She  lived  almost  in  solitude:  she  hardly  ever 
saw   anybody   except   when   they    sought   her  out.     To 


390  THE  INTERVAL 

those  who  were  anxious  about  her  she  laughed  and  said 
she  was  very  well. 

One  sunny  morning  she  was  lying  awake,  waiting  for 
the  maid  to  bring  her  tea.  The  shy  London  sunlight 
peeped  through  the  blinds.  The  room  had  a  fresh  and 
happy  look. 

When  she  heard  the  door  open  she  thought  that  the 
maid  had  come  in.  Then  she  saw  that  Hugh  was  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  was  in  uniform  this  time, 
and  looked  as  he  had  looked  the  day  he  went  away. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,  speak  to  me !  Will  you  not  say  just  one 
word?" 

He  smiled  and  threw  back  his  head,  just  as  he  used 
to  in  the  old  days  at  her  mother's  house  when  he  wanted 
to  call  her  out  of  the  room  without  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  the  others.  He  moved  towards  the  door,  still 
signing  to  her  to  follow  him.  He  picked  up  her  slip- 
pers on  his  way  and  held  them  out  to  her  as  if  he  wanted 
her  to  put  them  on.     She  slipped  out  of  bed  hastily.  .  .  . 

It  is  strange  that  when  they  came  to  look  through  her 
things  after  her  death  the  slippers  could  never  be  found. 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 


>>  1 


By  LAWRENCE  PERRY 

From  Scribner's  Magazine. 

EVELYN  COLCORD  glanced  up  the  table  with  the 
appraising  eye  of  a  young  hostess  who  had  already 
established  a  reputation  for  her  dinners.  The  room  had 
been  decorated  with  a  happy  effect  of  national  colors, 
merged  with  those  of  the  allied  nations,  and  neither  in 
the  table  nor  its  appointments  was  a  flaw  revealed  — 
while  the  low,  contented  murmur  of  conversation  and 
light  laughter  attending  completion  of  the  first  course 
afforded  assurance  that  the  company  was  well  chosen  and 
the  atmosphere  assertive  in  qualities  that  made  for  equa,- 
nimity  and  good  cheer. 

She  smiled  slightly,  nodding  at  the  butler,  who  had 
been  watching  her  anxiously,  and  then  glanced  out  the 
corner  of  her  eye  at  Professor  Simec,  seated  at  her  right. 
She  had  entertained  doubts  concerning  him,  had,  in  fact, 
resented  the  business  necessity  which  had  brought  him 
thither  as  guest  of  honor,  not  through  any  emotion  ap- 
proximating inhospitality  but  wholly  because  of  her  mis- 
trust as  to  the  effect  of  this  alien  note  upon  her  dinner, 
which  was  quite  impromptu,  having  been  arranged  at  the 
eleventh  hour  in  deference  to  the  wishes  of  Jerry  Dane, 
a  partner  of  Colcord's,  who  was  handling  the  firm's 
foreign  war  patents. 

She  had  done  the  best  she  could  as  to  guests,  had  done 
exceedingly  well,  as  it  chanced,  fortune  having  favored 
her  especially  in  the  cases  of  several  of  those  who  sat 
about  the  table.  And  now  Simec  was  fully  involved  in 
conversation  with  Bessie  Dane,  who  seemed  deeply  in- 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Copyright,  1918,  by  Law- 
rence  Perry. 


392  "  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  — " 

terested.  As  for  the  man,  weazened  and  attenuate,  she 
could  catch  only  his  profile  —  the  bulging,  hairless  brow, 
and  beard  curling  outward  from  the  tip,  forming  sort  of 
a  crescent,  which  she  found  hardly  less  sinister  than  the 
cynical  twist  where  grizzled  whiskers  and  mustaches  con- 
joined and  the  cold,  level  white  eyes  that  she  had  noted 
as  dominant  characteristics  when  he  was  presented. 

Simec  was  a  laboratory  recluse  who  had  found  his 
metier  in  the  war.  Rumor  credited  to  him  at  least  one 
of  the  deadliest  chemical  combinations  employed  by  the 
allied  armies.  But  it  was  merely  rumor  ;  nothing  definite 
was  known.  These  are  things  of  which  little  is  hinted 
and  less  said.  None  the  less,  intangible  as  were  his  prac- 
tical achievements  —  whatever  they  might  be  —  his  repu- 
tation was  substantial,  enhanced,  small  doubt,  by  the  very 
vagueness  of  his  endeavors.  The  element  of  mystery, 
which  his  physical  appearance  tended  not  to  allay,  in- 
vested him,  as  it  were,  with  a  thaumaturgic  veil  through 
which  was  dimly  revealed  the  man.  It  was  as  though  his 
personality  was  merely  a  nexus  to  the  things  he  stood  for 
and  had  done,  so  that  he  appeared  to  Evelyn  less  a  human 
entity  than  a  symbol.  But  at  least  Bessie  Dane  was  in- 
terested and  the  fine  atmosphere  of  the  table  was  without 
a  taint. 

Shrugging  almost  imperceptibly,  she  withdrew  her  eyes 
and  looked  across  the  table  wath  an  expression  which 
Nicholas  Colcord  could  have  interpreted  had  he  not  been 
engrossed  with  Sybil  Latham.  Evelyn  studied  him  with 
admiring  tenderness  as  he  lounged  in  his  chair,  toying 
idly  with  a  fork,  smiling  at  something  his  partner  was 
saying,  while  her  mind  ran  lovingly  over  the  dominant 
traits  of  a  personality  which  was  so  strong,  so  keenly 
alive,  so  sensitive  to  decent,  manly  things,  so  perfectly 
balanced. 

Failing  to  catch  his  eye,  Evelyn  turned  to  her  plate 
filled  with  a  subtle  melancholy.  When  would  there  be 
another  dinner  like  this?  Not,  at  all  events,  until  the 
war  was  over.     Nick  had  spoken  about  this  —  very  defi- 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  393 

nitely;  there  would  be  no  more  entertaining.  She  had 
agreed  with  him,  of  course,  not,  however,  escaping  the 
conviction  that  her  husband's  viewpoint  was  more  or 
less  in  keeping  with  a  certain  unusual  sombreness  which 
she  had  caught  creeping  into  his  mood  in  the  past  year 
or  so. 

Still,  everybody  who  amounted  to  anything  was  pull- 
ing up  on  the  bit  and  doing  something  or  talking  of  do- 
ing something  or  other  for  the  country.  It  was  already 
assured  that  the  season  would  be  insufferably  dull  — 
from  a  social  standpoint  at  least.  Evelyn  could  not  sup- 
press a  certain  resentment.  She  was  not  one  of  those 
who  had  found  an  element  of  thrill  in  the  suddenly  altered 
perspectives.  Her  plans  for  the  spring  season  had  been 
laid ;  engagements  had  been  accepted  or  declined,  as  func- 
tions promised  to  be  worth  while  or  uninteresting;  all  the 
delicate  interlocking  machinery  of  the  life  in  which  Eve- 
lyn Colcord  moved,  somewhat  prominently,  was  in  motion 
—  then  the  sudden  checking  of  the  wheels :  war. 

Now  there  were  memories  of  her  husband's  sober 
words;  now  there  was  young  Jeffery  Latham  at  her 
elbow  —  he  had  been  almost  shot  to  pieces  in  France  — 
now  there  was  Simec,  the  genius  of  diabolical  achieve- 
ment. .  .  .  What  were  things  coming  to?  Even  the 
weather  had  gone  wrong.  Outside,  an  unseasonable  cold 
rain,  lashed  by  a  northeast  gale,  was  driving  against  the 
panes  of  the  French  windows,  and  the  sizzling  effulgence 
of  an  arc-lamp  revealed  pools  of  water  lying  on  the 
asphalt  of  the  avenue.  .  .  . 

The  dry,  softly  modulated  voice  of  Captain  Latham 
at  her  left  lifted  Evelyn  from  her  trend  of  sombre  revery. 

"  Nick  is  looking  uncommonly  fit  —  he'll  go  in  for  the 
cavalry,  I  suppose." 

The  young  British  officer  spoke  more  with  a  half- 
humorous  effort  at  conversation  than  any  other  motive, 
but  she  turned  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  appeal. 

"Jeffery,"  she  said,  "you  make  me  shiver!" 

The  man  stared  at  her  curiously. 


394  "  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  — " 

"  Why,  I  —  I'm  sorry.     I'm  sure  I  didn't  — " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  know  you  didn't. 
Don't  be  silly.  As  for  me,  I'm  perfectly  foolish,  don't 
you  know.  Only  " —  she  paused  — "  I  detest  war  talk. 
It's  so  fearfully  upsetting.  It  seems  only  yesterday  that 
it  was  a  subject  to  drag  in  when  conversation  lagged. 
But  now  — " 

Latham's  quizzical  reply  was  almost  upon  his  lips, 
when,  evidently  changing  his  mind,  he  spoke  dryly. 

"  No  doubt  you'll  become  used  to  it  in  time.  ...  By 
the  by,  I  was  in  fun  about  old  Nick.  His  objection  to 
grouse  coverts  and  deer-stalking  —  I  can't  fancy  him  in 
war." 

As  she  didn't  reply  he  picked  up  his  fork,  adding: 
"  Yet  he's  a  tremendous  athlete  —  polo  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  Do  you  know,  I  suspect  that  when  the  real 
pull  comes  he  won't  object  to  potting  at  Germans.  .  .  . 
Did  you  do  these  menu  cards,  Evelyn?  They're  awfully 
well  done." 

She  nodded,  eying  him  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  I  painted  them  this  afternoon.  You  see,  it  was 
a  rush  order.  ...  As  to  Nick,  I  don't  think  it  will  come 
to  his  enlisting.  I've  never  considered  it,  really.  He's 
awfully  mixed  up  in  government  finances,  don't  you 
know.     We  all  tell  him  he's  more  valuable  where  he  is." 

Latham  smiled  faintly. 

"  What  does  Nick  say  to  that?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  She  shrugged.  "  Nothing  very 
definite.  War  has  been  a  taboo  subject  with  him  —  I 
mean  from  the  first  when  you  all  went  in.  I  know  he 
has  strong  feelings  about  it,  terribly  strong.  But  he 
never  talks  about  them." 

"He  went  in  strong  on  the  financial  end,  didn't  he?" 
asked  the  Englishman.  "  Some  one  in  London  told  me 
he'd  made  a  lot  of  oof." 

She  nodded,  coloring. 

"  Yes,  oceans  of  money.  .  .  .  Not  that  we  needed  it," 
Evelyn  added,  a  trifle  defensively. 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  395 

"  I  know ;  it  just  came,"  was  Latham's  comment. 
"  Well,  it  all  helped  us  out  of  a  nasty  mess." 

Evelyn  was  thinking  and  did  not  reply  immediately. 
When  she  did  speak  it  was  apparent  that  in  changing  the 
subject  she  had  followed  a  natural  impulse  without  in- 
tention or  design. 

"  Jeffery,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  I  haven't  been  able 
to  make  you  out  since  you  arrived  here  —  nor  Sybil 
either,"  she  added,  nodding  toward  Latham's  wife,  whose 
classic,  flaxen-haired  profile  was  turned  toward  them. 

The  man  was  smiling  curiously. 

"  I  didn't  realize  we  had  changed  so." 

"  Well,  you  have,  both  of  you.  You  talk  the  same  and 
act  the  same  —  except  a  —  a  sort  of  reserve;  something; 
I  don't  know  just  what.  .  .  .  Somehow,  you,  and  Sybil, 
too,  seem  as  though  you  felt  strange,  aloof,  out  of  place. 
You  used  to  be  so  absolutely  —  well,  natural  and  at  home 
with  us  all  — " 

"  My  word !  "  Latham  laughed  but  made  no  further 
comment. 

"  Of  course,"  Evelyn  went  on,  "  you've  been  through 
a  lot,  I  can  appreciate  that.  When  I  got  Sybil's  letter  I 
simply  wept :  twenty-four  hours  in  a  muddy  shell-hole ; 
invalided  for  good,  with  an  arm  you  can't  raise  above 
your  shoulder ;  a  horrid  scar  down  your  face.  .  .  ." 

"  It  does  make  rather  a  poor  face  to  look  at,  doesn't 
it?"  Latham  flushed  and  hurried  on.  "Well,  I've  no 
complaint." 

She  glanced  at  the  cross  on  his  olivcrdrab  coat. 

"  Of  course  not!  How  absurd,  Jeffery!  But  how  did 
Sybil  ever  stand  it?  How  did  she  live  through  it?  I 
mean  the  parting,  the  months  of  suspense,  word  that  you 
were  missing,  then  mortally  wounded?  .  .  .  Her  brother 
killed  by  gas?" 

Latham  glanced  at  his  wife,  a  soft  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Poor  Sybil,"  he  replied.  "  She  was  a  brick,  Evelyn 
—  a  perfect  brick.  I  don't  know  how  she  got  through  it. 
But  one  does,  you  know." 


396  "A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN—" 

"  Yes,  one  does,  I  suppose."  Evelyn  sighed.  "  But 
how?  /  couldn't;  I  simply  couldn't.  Why,  Jeffery,  I 
can't  bear  even  to  think  of  it." 

Latham  shook  his  head  negatively  at  the  footman, 
who  stood  at  his  side,  and  then  turned  smiling  to  Evelyn. 
"  Oh,  come !  Of  course  you  could.  You  don't  under- 
stand now,  but  you  will.  There's  a  sort  of  grace  given, 
I  fancy." 

"  JefFery,  I  don't  want  to  understand,  and  I  don't  want 
any  grace,  and  I  think  you're  horrid  and  unsympa- 
thetic." She  tapped  him  admonishingly  on  the  arm, 
laughing  lightly.  But  the  gloom  was  still  in  her  dark- 
gray  eyes.  "  But,  after  all,  you  are  right.  We  are  in  for 
it,  just  as  you  have  been.  .  ,  .  God  grant  there  are 
women  more  Spartan  than  I." 

Latham  grimaced  and  was  raising  a  deprecating  hand 
when  she  caught  it  impulsively. 

"  Please  let's  talk  about  something  else." 

"  Very  well."  He  smiled  mockingly  and  lowered  his 
voice.  "  Your  friend  at  your  right  there  —  curious  beg- 
gar, don't  you  think  ?  " 

Evelyn  glanced  at  Simec,  turning  again  to  Latham. 

"  He  gives  me  the  creeps,"  she  confessed.  "  It  seems 
absurd,  but  he  does." 

"  Really !  "  The  Englishman  stared  at  the  man  a  mo- 
ment. "  Do  you  know,"  he  resumed,  "  he  does  seem  a 
bit  uncanny.     Where'd  Nick  pick  him  up?" 

"  It  was  Jerry  Dane,"  she  replied.  "  He's  done  some 
tremendous  things  on  the  other  side.  Jerry  met  him  in 
Washington  the  other  day  and  seems  to  regard  him  as  a 
find.  He  has  no  business  sense  and  has  given  away  prac- 
tically everything.  Now  we  are  going  to  capitalize  him ; 
I  believe  that's  the  word.  I  never  saw  him  before  to- 
night " —  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  — "  and,  do  you 
know,  I  hope  I  never  shall  again."  She  shrugged. 
"  Listen  to  him." 

Several  of  the  guests  were  already  doing  that.  His 
toneless  voice  rose  and  fell  monotonously,  and  he  ap- 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  397 

peared  so  detached  from  whcft  he  was  saying  that  as 
Evelyn  gazed  at  him  she  seemed  to  find  difficulty  in  re- 
lating words  that  were  said  to  the  speaker;  only  the 
slight  movement  of  the  lips  and  an  occasional  formless 
gesture  made  the  association  definite. 

'*  Doctor  Allison,"  he  was  saying,  "  has  missed  the  dis^ 
tinction  between  hostia  honoraria  and  hostia  piacnlaris. 
In  the  former  case  the  deity  accepts  the  gift  of  a  life;  in 
the  latter  he  demands  it." 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  all  talking  about  now  ?  " 
asked  Evelyn  plaintively.     "  Not  war  —  ?  " 

"  Sacrifice,  Mrs.  Colcord."  Simec  inclined  his  head 
slightly  in  her  direction. 

"  I  was  saying,"  explained  Doctor  Allison,  "  that  we 
do  well  if  we  send  our  young  men  to  battle  in  the  spirit 
of  privileged  sacrifice,  as  —  as  something  that  is  our  — 
our  —  yes  —  our  proud  privilege,  as  I  say,  to  do." 

Simec  shook  his  head  in  thoughtful  negation. 

'*  That  is  sentiment,  excellent  sentiment;  unfortunately, 
it  doesn't  stand  assay.  Reaction  comes.  We  do  better 
if  we  make  our  gift  of  blood  as  a  matter  of  unalterable 
necessity.  We  make  too  much  of  it  all,  in  any  event. 
The  vast  evil  of  extended  peace  is  the  attachment  of  too 
great  value  to  luxuries  and^to  human  life  —  trite,  but 
true.  We  know,  of  course,  that  the  world  has  progressed 
chiefly  over  the  dead  bodies  of  men  and,  yes,  women  and 
children." 

Some  new  element  had  entered  into  the  voice. 
Whether  it  was  herself  or  whether  it  was  Simec,  Evelyn 
was  in  no  mood  to  determine.  .  .  .  She  was  aware  only 
of  a  certain  metallic  cadence  which  beat  cruelly  upon  her 
nerves.  Silence  had  followed,  but  not  of  the  same  sort 
as  before.  As  though  seeking  complete  withdrawal, 
Evelyn  turned  her  eyes  out  of  the  window.  A  wayfarer, 
head  down,  was  struggling  through  the  nimbus  of  watery 
electric  light ;  a  horse-drawn  vehicle  was  plodding  by. 
Colcord's  voice  brought  her  back ;  it  was  strained. 

"  T  don't  feel  as  Allison  does."  he  said.     "  And  I  cer- 


398  "A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN—" 

tainly  have  no  sympathy  with  Simec."  He  leaned  for- 
ward, his  elbows  on  the  table.  "  You  see,"  he  went  on, 
"I  —  I  —  well,  maybe,  I'm  a  product  of  extended  peace, 
as  Simec  puts  it.  No  doubt  I'm  soft.  But  this  war  — 
I've  never  talked  nor  let  myself  think  much  about  the 
war  —  but  this  whole  thing  of  sacrifice  got  under  me 
from  the  very  first.  .  .  .  Young  men,  thousands,  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  them,  yes,  millions,  torn  from  their 
homes,  from  their  mothers,  their  fathers  —  their  wives, 
for  what?  To  be  blown  into  shapeless,  unrecognizable 
clay,  to  be  maimed,  made  useless  for  life.  My  God!  It 
has  kept  me  awake  nights !  " 

"  Colcord  " —  Simec's  white  eyes  rested  professionally 
upon  the  host  — "  let  us  get  to  the  root  of  your  state  of 
mind;  your  brief  is  for  the  individual  as  against  the 
common  good,  is  it  not?" 

Colcord  frowned. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  any  brief,  Simec ;  I've  never  reasoned 
about  the  thing,  that  is,  in  a  cold,  scientific  way.  It's  a 
matter  of  heart,  I  suppose  —  of  instinct.  I  just  can't 
seem  to  stand  the  calculating,  sordid  wastage  of  young 
life  and  all  that  it  involves.  Now,  of  course,  it  has  come 
closer  home.     And  it's  terrible." 

"  You  never  would  shoot  anything  for  sport,  would 
you,  old  fellow?"  said  Latham,  sympathetically,  "not 
even  pheasants." 

Colcord  tossed  his  beautifully  modelled  head. 

"  Latham,  I  tell  you,  I'm  soft ;  I'm  the  ultimate  product 
of  peace  and  civilization." 

"  Yes,  you're  soft,  terribly  so,"  smiled  Dane.  "  I 
ought  to  know;  I  played  opposite  you  at  tackle  for  two 
years." 

"  Stuff!  You  understand  what  I  mean,  Jerry;  I  guess 
you  all  do.  I've  never  talked  this  way  before;  as  I  say, 
I've  always  kept  the  war  in  the  background,  tried  to  gloss 
it  over,  forget  it.  But  I  couldn't;  I've  done  a  heap  of 
thinking."  He  sat  bolt  upright,  his  clinched  fist  upon 
the  table.     "  All  these  young  chaps  herded  together  and 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  399 

suddenly  turned  loose  from  all  they've  known  and  done 
and  thought  —  I  tell  you  I  can't  duck  it  any  more." 

"  I  know,  old  chap."  Arnold  Bates,  who  wrote  light 
society  novels,  spoke  soothingly.  "It  is  —  rotten.  But 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

Colcord's  fine  brow  was  wrinkled  painfully. 

"  Nothing,  Arnold,  nothing.  That's  the  trouble ;  you 
have  to  sit  still  and  watch  this  wrecking  of  civilization 
or  else  get  out  and  take  a  hack  at  the  thing  yourself.  I 
can't  do  that;  not  unless  I  have  to."  He  paused.  "  I've 
had  a  good  time  in  this  life;  things  have  always  come 
easily  — " 

Sybil  Latham  was  regarding  him  contemplatively. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  I  don't  know  a  man  who  has 
impressed  me  as  so  thoroughly  enjoying  life  as  you, 
Nick—" 

Colcord  stared  at  her  a  moment. 

"  Well,  I  do,"  he  replied  at  length.  "  But  I  want  to 
say  this  right  here:  if  some  person  or  presence,  some 
supernatural  being,  say,  should  come  here  to-night,  at 
this  table,  and  tell  me  that  by  giving  up  my  life  right  now 
I  would,  through  that  act,  bring  an  end  to  — " 

"  Nick ! "  Evelyn  Colcord's  voice  was  poignantly 
sharp. 

"If  through  that  little  sacrifice  the  blood  glut  in 
Europe  would  end,  I'd  do  it  cheerfully,  joyfully,  in  a 
minute." 

Simec  was  gazing  at  the  speaker  with  half-closed  eyes ; 
the  others,  in  thrall  of  his  words,  were  staring  at  the  table 
or  at  one  another.  , 

"  What  a  thought ! "  Mrs.  Allison  glanced  at  him 
curiously.     "  Coming  from  you,  of  all  men,  Nick !  " 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  say  that?"  Jerry  Dane  sank 
down  in  his  chair,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  gazed 
sombrely  up  at  the  ceiling.  "  By  George !  I  wish  I 
could  —  but  I  can't." 

Bates  shifted  uneasily.     He  shrugged. 

"  It's  too  hypothetical.     And  yet  -^  of  course  it's  ab- 


400  "A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN—" 

surd  —  yet  if  the  thing  could  happen,  I  think  I'd  stick 
with  Colcord." 

"  In  other  words  " —  Simec's  voice  now  had  a  sibilant 
hiss — "  if  you  could  end  war  through  your  death  you'd 
be  willing  to  die  —  now,  or  at  any  specified  time?  " 

"If  you're  talking  to  me,"  said  Colcord,  *'  I'm  on  rec- 
ord. Those  who  know  me  well  know  I  don't  have  to 
say  a  thing  twice  " 

"  I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Bates,"  replied  the  inventor. 
"  He  seemed  doubtful." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  now,''  retorted  the  writer  sharply. 
"  I'm  with  Nick  absolutely." 

Doctor  Allison  was  shaking  his  head. 

"  Theoretically,  I  would  make  the  same  assertion,"  he 
confessed,  "  but  I  wish  to  be  honest ;  I  don't  know 
whether  I  could  do  it  or  not." 

"  Neither  do  I,''  said  Dane.  "  A  certainty  like  that 
and  taking  a  chance  on  the  battlefield  are  two  different 
things.  What  do  you  say,  Latham ;  you've  been  through 
the  mill?" 

"  Well,  you  know,"  shrugged  the  soldier,  "  I  fancy  I'm 
a  bit  hardened.  I'd  like  to  see  the  thing  through  now. 
We've  gone  so  far,  don't  you  know." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence  broken  only  by  the 
soft  movements  of  the  butler  and  footman.  One  of  the 
windows  rattled  in  a  gust  of  wind  and  rain.  Under  the 
flickering  candle-lights  the  company  seemed  to  draw  to- 
gether in  a  fellowship  that  was  not  the  bond  of  gustatory 
cheer  —  which  Evelyn  could  so  infallibly  establish  at  her 
table  —  but  a  communion  of  sympathetic  feeling  as  of 
one  drawing  to  another  in  the  common  thrall  of  subdued 
emotion.  The  prevailing  mood  impressed  Evelyn  Col- 
cord strongly,  and,  glancing  down  the  table,  she  started 
at  her  accuracy  in  divining  the  cause.  Simec's  place  was 
vacant.  She  recalled  now  that  but  a  moment  before  he 
had  been  summoned  to  the  telephone.  She  had  noted 
his  temporary  departure  only  as  one  notices  the  lifting  of 
a  saffron  mist. 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  401 

Unquestionably,  the  absorbing  topic  had  gripped  the 
imagination  of  all.  It  was  sufficiently  theoretical,  so  ab- 
solutely hypothetical,  in  fact,  so  utterly  impossible,  that 
Evelyn's  alert  intellect  found  pleasure  in  grappling  with 
it. 

"  I  wonder  — !  "  Her  elbows  were  on  the  table,  her 
chin  upon  her  hands.  "Of  course,  it's  awfully  easy  to 
say;  but  I  wonder  how  it  would  be  if  we  really  faced 
such  a  question.  Just  consider,  Arnold," —  she  was 
smiling  at  Bates  — "  the  superhuman  firing  squad  is  out- 
side the  door;  the  superhuman  agent  stands  at  your  side 
ready  to  push  the  button  and  end  the  war  as  the  shots 
ring  out.  You  picture  it,  of  course,  with"  your  imagina- 
tion.    Well,  sir,  what  do  you  say?" 

Bates  grimaced,  twisting  the  stem  of  his  wine-glass  in 
his  fingers. 

"  Well,  one  can  say  only  what  he  thinks  he  would  do. 
It's  so  absurd  that  I  can't  visualize  your  picture  —  not 
even  with  my  imagination.  But  it  seems  to  me  —  it 
seems  that  I  would  gladly  make  the  sacrifice." 

Doctor  Allison,  who  had  been  scowling  at  the  ceiling, 
passing  his  fingers  thoughtfully  through  his  sparse  gray 
hair,  sighed  deeply. 

"That's  just  it;  how  could  one  possibly  tell?  The 
mind  adapts  itself  to  situations,  I  suppose ;  in  fact,  of 
course  it  does.  It's  altogether  difficult,  sitting  at  this 
table  with  its  food  and  color  and  light  and  excellent  com- 
pany, to  place  yourself  in  the  position  Nicholas  has  de- 
vised. It's  simply  flying  from  the  very  comfortable  and 
congenial  and  normal  present  into  a  dark  limbo  that  is 
deucedly  uncomfortable,  uncongenial,  and  abnormal.  I 
can't  go  beyond  what  I've  already  said ;  I  don't  know 
whether  I'd  do  it  or  not." 

"  You'd  like  to.  of  course,"  suggested  Mrs.  Dane. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I'd  like  to,"  was  the  reply. 
"  The  point  I  make  is  whether  T  could  or  not ;  I  don'l 
know." 

"Well  " — the  young  woman  paused — "  I'm  not  going 


402  "  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  — " 

to  put  the  question  to  my  husband  because  I  wouldn't  let 
Jerry  do  it,  even  if  he  were  willing." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Bess !  "  grinned  Dane. 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't,  and  I  imagine  I'd  have  some  rights 
in  the  matter." 

"  Now  we're  getting  back  to  Simec's  hostia  honoraria 
and  hostia  piacularis,"  laughed  Bates. 

"  It  is  a  new  viewpoint,"  sighed  Evel3m.  "  Curiously, 
I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

She  smiled  across  the  table  at  her  husband,  but  he  was 
slouched  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  staring  vacantly  over  her 
head. 

"  Of  course  you'd  all  do  it,  every  one,"  he  said  pres- 
ently. "  The  trouble  now  is  that  you  are  attempting  to 
visualize  the  tragic  part  of  it  and  not  considering  the 
humanitarian  side  —  the  great  good  that  would  come  of 
the  sacrifice.  When  you  look  at  it  that  way  you  would 
be  willing  to  do  it  ^  and  think  it  a  mighty  darn  cheap 
exchange." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  grumbled  Allison.  "  But  I  can't 
help  thinking  I'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  face  the  alterna- 
tive." 

Evelyn  turned  swiftly  toward  Sybil  Latham,  under  the 
impression  that  she  had  made  some  little  exclamation  or 
that  she  had  checked  one.  But  her  face  was  hard  and 
inscrutable. 

"  Let's  change  the  subject."  Evelyn  laughed  self- 
consciously. "  It's  so  far-fetched ;  it's  getting  a  bit  on 
my  nerves." 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  knew  that  Simec  had  resumed 
his  seat,  although  he  had  made  no  sound  and  her  eyes 
were  upon  her  husband.  She  was  thus  not  surprised  to 
hear  his  voice. 

"  I  gather,  then,"  he  said,  as  though  picking  up  a  con- 
versational thread,  "  that  there  are  two  of  you  who  would 
be  willing  to  make  the  gift  of  sacrifice  —  Colcord  and 
Bates." 

His  manner  was  such  as  to  draw  them  all  from  their 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  403 

mood  of  idle,  comfortable  speculation  to  rigidity.  Turn- 
ing to  him,  searching  him,  they  saw,  as  it  seemed  to  them, 
a  new  being  divested  of  vagueness  —  dominant,  com- 
manding, remorseless.  Sitting  rigid,  his  thin,  hairy  neck 
stretched  outward,  he  suggested  some  sinister  bird  of 
prey.  Thus  poised  for  an  instant  he  regarded  the  two 
men  whom  he  had  named. 

"  Suppose,"  he  proceeded,  "  that  I  could  make  this 
absurd  condition  —  as  Bates  terms  it  —  exist.  Would 
you  gentlemen  still  hold  your  position?  Believe  me,  I 
ask  this  in  the  utmost  good  faith  — " 

Evelyn  Colcord  spoke  before  either  man  could  make 
reply. 

"  Nick,  this  is  getting  a  bit  unpleasant,  really."  She 
laughed  nervously.  "  Don't  you  think  we  could  turn  to 
something  more  cheerful?     I  adore  a  joke — " 

"  But  this  is  not  a  joke,  Mrs.  Colcord,"  rejoined  Simec 
gravely. 

"  Well,  in  any  event  — "  began  Evelyn,  but  her  hus- 
band interrupted. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  on  record,  Simec,"  he  said.  "  You 
show  me  a  way  to  end  this  carnival  of  murder  —  and 
I'm  your  man." 

"  I,  too."  Bates  chuckled.  **  Perhaps,  after  all,  we've 
been  dining  closer  to  the  supernatural  than  we  realized. 
Well,  I'm  game.  Life,  after  all,  is  only  a  few  more 
summers  and  a  few  more  winters,  even  if  we  live  it  out. 
Go  to  it,  Simec."  There  was  sort  of  a  reckless  ring  in 
the  writer's  voice  which  was  taken  as  a  sign  that  he  was 
seriously  impressed.  But  Bates  would  be;  he  had  imag- 
ination and  was  temperamental. 

"  I  wish  you  all  would  stop."  Bessie  Dane's  voice  was 
childishly  plaintive. 

"Nick,  please!"  cried  Evelyn.  "This  is  not  at  all 
funny." 

"  I  don't  see  the  joke,  I  must  confess,"  grumbled 
Allison. 

Evelyn  wished  that  Latham  or  his  wife  would  add 


404  "A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN—" 

weight  to  the  protest,  but  they  remained  silent,  staring 
curiously  at  the  inventor,  as,  indeed,  they  had  through- 
out. Now  she  thought  of  it,  she  reaHzed  that  the  two 
had  remained  practically  aloof  from  the  discussion  that 
had  preceded  Simec's  denouement. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Simec,"  said  Colcord  crisply,  "  that  we're 
getting  a  bit  unpopular.  We'd  better  drop  the  subject. 
It  was  rather  a  cheap  play,  I'll  admit,  stacking  myself  up 
as  a  martyr  in  a  wholly  impossible  situation.  You  called 
me  —  and  Bates  there  —  rather  cleverly.  .  .  .  The  drinks 
are  on  us.  .  .  .  At  the  same  time  I  meant  what  I  said, 
even  if  it  was  far-fetched;  I  mean  I  was  sincere" 

Simec  threw  out  his  arm  in  a  long,  bony  gesture. 

"  I  am  perfectly  convinced  of  that.  That  is  why  I 
am  going  to  ask  you  to  make  your  offer  good." 

Had  it  come  from  any  one  else  there  would  have  been 
derisive  laughter.  But  Simec,  a  man  to  whom  had  been 
credited  so  much  of  mystery  and  achievement,  was  speak- 
ing. In  the  soft  crimson  glow  of  the  table  he  stood, 
reducing  to  practical  application  the  very  situation  which 
they  had  found  so  attractive,  only  because  of  its  utter 
grotesque  impossibility.  It  was  startling,  grimly  thrill- 
ing. There  was  the  sense  among  some  about  the  table  of 
struggling  menially  to  break  the  spell  which  this  coldly 
unemotional  creature  of  science  had  cast.  .At  length 
Dane  spoke  as  though  by  sheer  physical  efYort. 

"  .Simec  —  we  —  we  all  know  you're  a  genius.  But 
just  now  you  don't  quite  get  over." 

The  inventor  turned  his  head  slowly  toward  the 
speaker. 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand." 

"  Rats,"  said  Dane  roughly.  "  Here  Nick  says  he'd 
give  up  his  life  if  the  war  could  be  stopped  and  you  l)ob 
up  and  tell  him  to  make  good,  throwing  sort  of  a  Faust 
effect  over  the  whole  dinner.  All  right  for  Nick  and 
Arnold  Bates  —  but  how  about  you,  Simec?  How  will 
you  stop  the  war  if  they  shuffle  off?  I'll  bite  once  on 
anything;  how  will  you  do  it?"     There  was  a  general 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  405 

movement  of  the  diners.  Dane's  wife  laughed  a  trifle 
hysterically. 

Simec  arose  and  stood  leaning  forward,  his  hands  upon 
the  table. 

"  The  situation  which  Colcord  devised,  as  it  happens, 
is  not  so  impossible  as  you  think.  In  fact,  it  may  prove 
to  be  quite  feasible  — "  He  paused,  but  no  voice  rose  to 
break  the  silence.  The  candle-lights  were  flickering 
softly  in  an  entering  breath  of  wind.  Evelyn  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  her  husband,  who  grimaced  and  shrugged 
slightly. 

"  I  imagine  I  have  some  sort  of  a  reputation  in  the 
way  of  physical  formula  as  applied  to  war,"  Simec  went 
on  presently.  "  Dane  is  about  to  handle  a  rather  ex- 
traordinary gun  of  mine  in  the  foreign  market.  But  one 
gun  differs  from  another  only  inasmuch  as  it  is  some- 
what more  deadly  —  its  destructiveness  is  not  total." 
He  raised  a  thin  forefinger  and  levelled  it  along  the 
table. 

"  Let  us  assume,"  he  said,  "  that  there  has  been  de- 
vised and  perfected  an  apparatus  which  will  release  a 
destructive  energy  through  the  medium  of  ether  waves. 
If  you  understand  anything  about  the  wireless  telegraph 
you  will  grasp  what  I  mean ;  in  itself  the  wireless,  of 
course,  involves  transmitted  power.  Let  us  transform 
and  amplify  that  power  and  we  encompass  —  destruc- 
tion. The  air  is  filled  with  energy.  A  sun-ray  is  energy ; 
you  will  recall  that  Archimedes  concentrated  it  through 
immense  burning-glasses  which  set  fire  to  Roman  ships." 

His  voice  had  grown  clear  and  strong,  as  though  he 
was  lecturing  to  a  class  of  students. 

"  Now,  then,  assume  an  instrument  such  as  I  have 
roughly  described  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  our  allied 
nations,  an  instrument  which  releases  and  propels  against 
the  enemy  energy  so  incomprehensibly  enormous  that  it 
destroys  matter  instantaneously,  whether  organic  or  in- 
organic :  assume  that  in  a  few  hours  it  could  lay  the 
greatest  host  the  world  ever  saw  in  death,  whether  they 


406  "A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN— " 

were  concealed  in  the  earth  or  were  in  the  air,  or  wher- 
ever they  were ;  assume  it  could  level  a  great  city.  As- 
suming all  this,  can  you  conceive  that  the  nations  hold- 
ing this  mighty  force  in  their  hands  could  bring  about 
peace  which  would  not  only  be  instant  but  would  be 
permanent?  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  footman,  obey- 
ing a  significant  glance  from  the  butler,  withdrew ;  the 
butler  himself  went  softly  out  of  the  room.  Latham 
looked  up  with  the  expression  of  a  man  emerging  from 
a  trance. 

"  I  don't  fancy  any  one  could  doubt  that,"  he  said. 

"  No,  indeed.  Certainly  not."  Allison  gestured  in 
playful  salute.  "  Let  me  congratulate  you  upon  a  fine 
flight  of  imagination,  Professor  Simec." 

"  Thank  you  —  but  it  isn't  imagination,  Doctor  Alli- 
son." The  man's  voice  had  again  become  flat  and  un- 
emotional, with  the  efi^ect  of  withdrawal  of  personality. 
"  I  have  reason  to  think  I  have  perfected  some  such  de- 
vice. ...  At  least  I  believe  I  now  possess  the  means  of 
destroying  human  life  on  a  wholesale  scale.  There  is 
yet  more  to  do  before  we  may  successfujly  assail  inor- 
ganic matter.  The  waves  penetrate  but  do  not  as  yet 
destroy,  so  that  while  we  should  easily  bring  dissolution 
to  human  beings  we  cannot  yet  disintegrate  the  walls  be- 
hind which  they  lurk.     That,  however,  is  a  detail  — " 

"  Just  like  that,  eh  ?  "  No  one  smiled  at  Jerry  Dane's 
comment.     Bates  leaned  forward. 

"  Where  do  Colcord  and  I  come  in  ?  " 

Simec,  who  had  resumed  his  seat,  turned  to  him. 

"  Of  course —  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  have  ex- 
plained at  the  outset  that  the  discovery  has  never  had 
adequate  practical  test.  One  of  my  assistants  lost  his 
life  a  month  or  so  ago,  to  be  sure ;  an  extremely  prom- 
ising man.  The  incident  was  of  value  in  demonstrating 
practically  a  theoretical  deadliness;  unfortunately,  it 
proved  also  that  the  power  energized  ether  waves  in  all 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  407 

directions,  whereas  obviously  it  should  be  within  the 
power  of  the  operator  to  send  it  only  in  a  given  direc- 
tion." 

"  Otherwise,"  remarked  Latham,  "  it  would  be  as  fatal 
to  the  side  using  it  as  to  the  army  against  whom  it  was 
directed." 

"  Precisely."  Simec  lifted  his  wine-glass  and  sipped 
slowly.  "  For  a  time,"  he  went  on,  "  this  drawback 
seemed  insuperable,  just  as  it  has  been  in  wireless  teleg- 
raphy. Within  the  past  week,  however,  I  am  convinced 
that  a  solution  of  that  difficulty  has  been  reached.  In 
theory  and  in  tests  on  a  minor  scale  it  certainly  has. 
My  assistants,  however,  refuse  to  serve  in  the  demon- 
strations at  full  power  —  which,  of  course,  are  vitally 
necessary  —  even  though  I  engage  to  share  a  part,  but 
not,  of  course,  the  major  part,  of  the  risk.  I  have  been 
equally  unfortunate  in  enlisting  others,  to  whom,  nat- 
urally, I  was  in  duty  bound  to  designate  possible  —  in 
fact,  extremely  probable  —  dangers." 

"  In  more  precise  words,"  snapped  Bates,  "  if  your  in- 
vention is  what  you  think  it  is  your  assistants  are  bound 
to  die." 

Simec  hesitated  a  moment,  his  gleaming  brow  wrinkled 
thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  not  precisely,"  he  said  at  length.  "  That  is, 
not  necessarily.  There  is,  of  course,  as  I  have  said, 
that  possi  —  that  probability.  I  cannot  be  certain.  As- 
suming the  more  serious  outcome  materializes,  there  will 
be  no  further  danger  for  those  who  operate ;  I  shall  have 
learned  all  that  it  is  necessary  to  know."  He  paused. 
"  Then  war  will  cease ;  either  before  or  immediately  after 
the  initial  field  application." 

"  But  this  is  absurd."  Allison  smote  the  table  in  agi- 
tation.    "  Why  don't  you  secure  condemned  convicts  ?  " 

"  Even  were  that  possible,  I  should  not  care  to  proceed 
in  that  way.  Again,  I  must  have  one  or  more  men  of 
keen  intelligence." 


408  "  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  — *' 

"  But  neither  Colcord  nor  Bates  is  a  scientist !  " 

"  That  is  not  at  all  necessary,"  was  the  composed  re- 
ply.    "  I  am  the  scientist." 

"And  Nick  the  victim,"  flashed  Evelyn  Colcord. 
"  Well,  I  most  decidedly  and  unalterably  object,  Professor 
Simec." 

"  Your  husband  and  Mr.  Bates,  inspired  by  humani- 
tarian motives,  named  a  condition  under  which  they 
would  give  —  not  risk  —  their  lives.  I  meet  their  con- 
dition, at  least  so  far  as  it  lies  within  human  agency 
to  do.  ...  Of  course  they  can  withdraw  their  offer — " 

Bates,  who  had  left  his  seat  and  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  turned  suddenly,  standing  over  the  sci- 
entist with  upraised  hand. 

"  Simec,  I  withdraw  right  here.  I'm  no  fool.  The 
whole  spirit  of  this  —  this  situation  is  not  in  keeping 
with  the  original  idea.  Not  at  all.  Whether  you  are 
joking,  serious,  or  simply  insane,  I'm  out.  Try  it  on 
yourself." 

"  I  have  already  assumed  great  risks.  In  furtherance 
of  my  device  —  which,  as  you  may  imagine,  will  have 
far-reaching  effects  —  I  must  survive,  if  I  can." 

Evelyn,  who  had  suppressed  an  exclamation  of  ap- 
proval of  Arnold  Bates's  stanch  words,  turned  to  her 
husband.  His  jaws  were  bulging  at  the  corners,  his  eyes 
alight.  In  a  species  of  panic  she  tried  to  speak  but  could 
not. 

"And  you,  Colcord?"  Simec's  colorless  delivered 
question  came  as  from  afar. 

Colcord  had  arisen  and  was  staring  at  the  inventor 
with  the  face  of  one  exalted. 

"If  you  have  what  you  say  you  have,  Simec,  you  meet 
my  condition  to  the  letter.  At  the  very  least,  it  will  be 
a  most  important  asset  to  the  cause  of  my  country.  In 
either  case  the  least  I  can  give  to  help  it  along  is  my  life 
—  if  that  proves  necessary.  .  .  .  When  do  you  want 
me?" 

In  the  silence  that   followed   Evelyn   Colcord,   sitting 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  409 

like  a  statue,  unable  to  move  nor  to  speak,  passed  through 
a  limbo  of  nameless  emotion.  Through  her  mind  swept 
a  flashing  filament  of  despair,  hope,  craven  fear,  and 
sturdy  resolution.  Tortured  in  the  human  alembic,  she 
was  at  length  resolved,  seeing  with  a  vision  that  pierced 
all  her  horizons.  And  then,  trembling,  tense,  there  camiC 
—  a  thought?  A  vision?  She  knew  not  what  it  was, 
nor  was  she  conscious  of  attempting  to  ascertain.  She 
knew  only  that  for  a  fleeting  instant  the  veil  had  been 
lifted  and  that  she  had  gazed  upon  serenity  and  that  all 
was  well.  Further,  she  had  no  inclination  to  know.  Not 
that  she  feared  complete  revelation;  for  that  matter, 
some  subconscious  conviction  that  all  would  be  well  illu- 
mined her  senses.  This  she  spurned,  or  rather  ignored, 
in  a  greater  if  nameless  exaltation.  Stern  with  the  real 
fibre  of  her  womanhood,  she  lifted  her  head  in  pride. 

Then,  moved  by  initiative  not  her  own,  her  face  turned, 
not  to  her  husband,  but  to  her  guests,  each  in  turn.  Ar- 
nold Bates  was  crushing  a  napkin  in  his  sensitive  fingers, 
flushed,  angry,  rebellious,  perhaps  a  trifle  discomfited. 
Dane  was  smiling  foolishly ;  Bessie  was  leaning  forward 
on  the  table,  dead  white,  inert.  Doctor  Allison's  head 
was  shaking;  he  was  clicking  his  tongue  and  his  wife 
was  twisting  her  stout  fingers  one  around  another.  So 
her  gaze  wandered,  and  then,  as  though  emerging  from 
a  dream,  revivified,  calm,  she  studied  each  intently.  She 
knew  not  why,  but  something  akin  to  contempt  crept  into 
her  mind. 

It  was  as  though  seeking  relief  that  her  eyes  rested 
upon  Sybil  Latham.  The  Englishwoman's  face  was 
turned  to  Colcord ;  her  color  was  heightened  only  slightly, 
but  in  her  blue  eyes  was  the  light  of  serene  stars,  and 
about  her  lips  those  new  lines  of  self-sacrifice,  an.xiety. 
sorrow,  which  Evelyn  had  resented  as  marring  the 
woman's  delicate  beauty,  now  imparted  to  her  face  vast 
strength,  ineffable  dignity,  nobility. 

Evelyn  Colcord's  throat  clicked ;  for  a  moment  she  did 
not  breathe,  while  a  vivid  flash  of  jealous  emotion  de- 


410  "  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  —" 

parted,  leaving  in  its  place  a  great  peace,  an  exaltation 
born  of  sudden  knowing.  Instinctively  seeking  further 
confirmation,  her  eyes,  now  wide  and  big  and  flaming, 
swept  to  Latham.  His  face,  too,  was  turned  toward 
her  husband.  It  was  the  grimly  triumphant  visage  of 
the  fighter  who  knows  his  own  kind,  of  the  friend  and 
believer  whose  faith,  suddenly  justified,  has  made  him 
proud. 

Evelyn  rose  and  stood  erect,  staring  into  vacancy. 
Here  were  two  who  kneiif,  who  understood  —  who  had 
been  through  hell  and  found  it  worth  while. 

Voices,  expostulatory  voices,  roused  her.  Allison  was 
at  her  side  and  Dane,  whose  wife,  weeping,  was  pulling 
at  her  bare  arm.  Colcord  and  Simec  stood  to  one  side, 
aloof,  as  though  already  detached  from  the  world. 

"  Evelyn ! "  Allison's  voice  was  peremptory.  "  I 
command  you!  You're  the  only  one  who  has  the  right 
to  check  this  damn  foolishness.  I  command  you  to 
speak." 

"  Evelyn  — "     Dane's  voice  trailed  into  nothingness. 

Again  her  eyes  turned  to  Sybil  Latham,  and  then, 
rigidly  as  an  automaton,  she  walked  swiftly  to  her  hus- 
band's side.  For  a  moment  the  two  stood  facing  each 
other,  eye  riveted  to  eye.  Her  beautiful  bare  arms  flew 
out  swiftly,  resting  upon  his  shoulders,  not  encircling  his 
neck. 

"  Nick  — "  Her  voice  was  low,  guttural.  "I  —  I 
didn't  help  you  much,  did  I,  dear  heart?  I  didn't  under- 
stand. They've  been  saying  it  would  all  come  home  to 
us.  But  I  didn't  think  so  quickly  —  nor  to  us.  I  —  I 
wasn't  ready.  I  am  now.  I  want  to  help ;  I  —  I  — " 
Her  fingers  clutched  his  shoulders  convulsively.  "  When 
—  when  do  you  go  ?  " 

Colcord  stood  a  moment,  his  eyes  smouldering  upon 
her. 

"  To-morrow  morning  at  seven,"  he  replied.  "  That 
was  the  hour,  Professor  Simec  ?  "  he  added  with  a  side- 
wise  inclination  of  his  head. 


LAWRENCE  PERRY  411 

"  Yes."  The  scientist  looked  away,  hesitated,  and  then 
joined  in  the  little  procession  to  the  dimly  lighted  hall. 
Evelyn  started  as  she  felt  her  fingers  locked  together  in 
a  firm  hand. 

"  You  know,  dear  girl,  don't  you  ?  "  There  was  a  mist 
in  Latham's  eyes. 

But  Evelyn's  face  was  light. 

"  Yes,  Jeffery,"  she  said  proudly,  "  I  know  now." 


THE  PATH  OF  GLORY ' 

By  MARY  BRECHT  PULVER 

From  The  Saturday  Evening  Post. 

IT  was  SO  poor  a  place  —  a  bitten-oflf  morsel  "  at  the 
beyond  end  of  nowhere  " —  that  when  a  February  gale 
came  driving  down  out  of  a  steel  sky  and  shut  up  the 
little  lane  road  and  covered  the  house  with  snow  a 
passer-by  might  have  mistaken  it  all,  peeping  through  its 
icy  fleece,  for  just  a  huddle  of  the  brown  bowlders  so 
common  to  the  country  thereabouts. 

And  even  when  there  was  no  snow  it  was  as  bad  — 
worse,  almost,  Luke  thought.  When  everything  else 
went  brave  and  young  with  new  greenery ;  when  the 
alders  were  laced  with  the  yellow  haze  of  leaf  bud,  and 
the  brooks  got  out  of  prison  again,  and  arbutus  and  violet 
and  buttercup  went  through  their  rotation  of  bloom  up 
in  the  rock  pastures  and  maple  bush  —  the  farm  buildings 
seemed  only  the  bleaker  and  barer. 

That  forlorn  unpainted  little  house,  with  its  sagging 
blinds !  It  squatted  there  through  the  year  like  a  one- 
eyed  beggar  without  a  friend  —  lost  in  its  venerable 
white-beard  winters,  or  contemplating  an  untidy  welter  of 
rusty  farm  machinery  through  the  summers. 

When  Luke  brought  his  one  scraggy  little  cow  up  the 
lane  he  always  turned  away  his  head.  The  place  made 
him  think  of  the  old  man  who  let  the  birds  build  nests  in 
his  whiskers.  He  preferred,  instead,  to  look  at  the  glories 
of  Bald  Mountain  or  one  of  the  other  hills.  There  was 
nothing  wrong  with  the  back  drop  in  the  home  stage-set ; 
it  was  only  home  itself  that  hurt  one's  feelings 

1  Copyright  J917,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company.  Copyright  1918, 
by  Mary  Brecht  Pulvcr. 

412 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER       413 

There  was  no  cheer  inside,  either.  The  sagging  old 
floors,  though  scrubbed  and  spotless,  were  uncarpeted ; 
the  furniture  meager.  A  pine  table,  a  few  old  chairs,  a 
shabby  scratched  settle  covered  by  a  thin  horse  blanket 
as  innocent  of  nap  as  a  Mexican  hairless  —  these  for  es- 
sentials ;  and  for  embellishment  a  shadeless  glass  lamp  on 
the  table,  about  six-candle  power,  where  you  might  make 
shift  to  read  the  Biivcekly  —  times  when  there  was 
enough  money  to  have  a  Biweekly  —  if  you  were  so 
minded  ;  and  window  shelves  full  of  corn  and  tomato  cans, 
still  wearing  their  horticultural  labels,  where  scrawny 
one-legged  geraniums  and  yellowing  coleus  and  begonia 
contrived  an  existence  of  sorts. 

And  then,  of  course,  the  mantelpiece  with  the  black- 
edged  funeral  notice  and  shiny  coffin  plate,  relics  of 
Grampaw  Peel's  taking-off ;  and  the  pink  mug  with  the 
purple  pan.sy  and  "  Woodstock,  N.  Y.,"  on  it ;  the  pho- 
tograph of  a  forgotten  cousin  in  Towa,  with  long  antennje- 
shaped  mustaches;  the  Bible  with  the  little  china  knobs 
on  the  corners ;  and  the  pile  of  medicine  testimonials  and 
seed  catalogues  —  all  these  contributed  something. 

If  it  was  not  a  beautiful  place  within,  it  was,  also,  not 
even  a  pleasant  place  spiritually.  What  with  the  open 
door  into  his  father's  room,  whence  you  could  hear  the 
thin  frettings  made  by  the  man  who  had  lain  these  ten 
years  with  chronic  rheumatism,  and  the  untuneful 
whistlings  of  whittling  Tom,  the  big  brother,  the  shapely 
supple  giant  whose  mind  had  never  grown  since  the  fall 
from  the  barn  room  when  he  was  eight  years  old,  and  the 
acrid  complaints  of  the  tall  gaunt  mother,  stepping  about 
getting  their  inadequate  supper,  in  her  gray  wrapper, 
with  the  ugly  little  blue  shawl  pinned  round  her  shoul- 
ders, it  was  as  bad  a  place  as  you  might  find  in  a  year's 
journeying  for  anyone  to  keep  bright  and  "  chirk  up  "  in. 

Not  that  anyone  in  particular  expected  "  them  poor 
Hayneses  "  to  keep  bright  or  "  chirk  up."  As  far  iDack 
as  he  could  remember,  Luke  had  realized  that  the  hand  of 
God  was  laid  on  his  family.     Dragging  hi.s  had  leg  up 


414  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

the  hill  pastures  after  the  cow,  day  in  and  day  out,  he  had 
evolved  a  sort  of  patient  philosophy  about  it.  It  was 
just  inevitable,  like  a  lot  of  things  known  in  that  rock- 
ribbed  and  fatalistic  region  —  as  immutably  decreed  by 
heaven  as  foreordination  and  the  damnation  of  unbap- 
tized  babes.     The  Hayneses  had  just  "  got  it  hard." 

Yet  there  were  times,  now  he  was  come  to  a  gangling 
fourteen,  when  Luke's  philosophy  threatened  to  fail  him. 
It  wasn't  fair  —  so  it  wasn't !  They  weren't  bad  folks ; 
they'd  done  nothing  wicked.  His  mother  worked  like  a 
dog  — "  no  fair  for  her,"  any  way  you  looked  at  it. 
There  were  times  when  the  boy  drank  in  bitterly  every 
detail  of  the  miserable  place  he  called  home  and  knew 
the  depths  of  an  utter  despair. 

H  there  was  only  some  way  to  better  it  all!  But 
there  was  no  chance.  His  father  had  been  a  failure  at 
everything  he  touched  in  early  life,  and  now  he  was  a 
hopeless  invalid.  Tom  was  an  idiot  —  or  almost  —  and 
himself  a  cripple.  And  Nat!  Well,  Nat  "  wa'n't 
willin' " —  not  that  one  should  blame  him.  Times  like 
these,  a  lump  like  a  roc's  egg  would  rise  in  the  boy's 
throat.     He  had  to  spit  —  and  spit  hard  —  to  conquer  it. 

"  If  we  hain't  the  gosh-awfulest  lot  I  "  he  would  gulp. 

To-day,  as  he  came  up  the  lane,  June  was  in  the  land. 
She'd  done  her  best  to  be  kind  to  the  farm.  All  the  old 
heterogeneous  rosebushes  in  the  woodyard  and  front 
"  lawn  "  were  pied  with  fragrant  bloom.  Usually  Luke 
would  have  lingered  to  snifif  it  all,  but  he  saw  only  one 
thing  now  with  a  sudden  skipping  at  his  heart  —  an  auto- 
mobile standing  beside  the  front  porch. 

It  was  not  the  type  of  car  to  cause  cardiac  disturbance 
in  a  connoisseur.  It  was,  in  fact,  of  an  early  vintage, 
high-set,  chunky,  brassily  aesthetic,  and  given  to  asthmatic 
choking  on  occasion ;  but  Luke  did  not  know  this.  He 
knew  only  that  it  spelled  lu.xury  beyond  all  dreams.  It 
belonged,  in  short,  to  his  Uncle  Clem  Cheesman,  the  rich 
butcher  who  lived  in  the  village  twelve  miles  away;  and 
its  presence  here  signaled  the  fact  that  Uncle  Clem  and 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  415 

Aunt  Mollie  had  come  to  pay  one  of  their  detestable 
quarterly  visits  to  their  poor  relations.  They  had  come 
while  he  was  out,  and  Maw  was  in  there  now,  bearing  it 
all  alone. 

Luke  limped  into  the  house  hastily.  He  was  not  mis- 
taken. There  was  a  company  air  in  the  room,  a  stiff 
hostile-polite  taint  in  the  atmosphere.  Three  visitors  sat 
in  the  kitchen,  and  a  large  hamper,  its  contents  partly  dis- 
gorged, stood  on  the  table.  Luke  knew  that  it  contained 
gifts  —  the  hateful,  merciful,  nauseating  charity  of  the 
better-off. 

Aunt  Mollie  was  speaking  as  he  entered  —  a  large, 
high-colored,  pouter-pigeon-chested  woman,  with  a  great 
many  rings  with  bright  stones,  and  a  nodding  pink  plume 
in  her  hat.  She  was  holding  up  a  bifurcated  crimson 
garment,  and  greeted  Luke  absently. 

"  Three  pair  o'  them  underdrawers,  Delia  —  an'  not  a 
break  in  one  of  'em!  I  sez,  as  soon  as  I  see  Clem  layin' 
'em  aside  this  spring,  '  Them  things'll  be  jest  right  fur 
Delia's  Jere,  layin'  there  with  the  rheumatiz.'  They  may 
come  a  little  loose ;  but,  of  course,  you  can't  be  choicey. 
I've  b'en  at  Clem  fur  five  years  to  buy  him  union  suits ; 
but  he's  always  h'cn  so  stuck  on  red  flannen.  But  now 
he's  got  two  aut'mobiles,  countin'  the  new  delivery,  I 
guess  he's  gotta  be  more  tony ;  so  he  made  out  to  spare 
'em.  And  now  that  hat,  Delia  —  it  ain't  a  mite  wore 
out.  an*  fur  all  you'll  need  one  it's  plenty  good  enough. 
I  only  had  it  two  years  and  I  guess  folks  won't  remember ; 
an'  what  if  they  do  —  they  all  know  you  get  my  things. 
Same  way  with  that  collarette.  It's  a  little  moth-eaten, 
but  it  won't  matter  fur  you.  .  .  .  The  gray  suit  you  can 
easy  cut  down  fur  Luke,  there  — " 

She  droned  on,  the  other  woman  making  dry  automatic 
sounds  of  assent.  She  looked  cool  —  Maw  —  Luke 
thought ;  but  she  wasn't.  Not  by  a  darn  sight !  There 
was  a  spot  of  pink  in  each  cheek  and  she  stared  hard 
every  little  bit  at  Grampaw  Peel's  funeral  plate  on  the 
mantel.     Luke  knew  what  she  was  thinking  of  —  poor 


4i6  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

Maw!  She  was  burning  in  a  fire  of  her  own  lighting. 
She  had  brought  it  all  on  herself  —  on  the  whole  lot  of 
them. 

Years  ago  she  had  been  just  like  Aunt  MoUie.  The 
daughters  of  a  prosperous  village  carpenter,  they  had 
shared  beads,  beaux  and  bangles  until  Maw,  in  a  moment's 
madness,  had  chucked  it  all  away  to  marry  poor  Paw. 
Now  she  had  made  her  bed,  she  must  He  in  it.  Must  sit 
and  say  "  Thank  you !  "  for  Aunt  Mollie's  leavings,  pre- 
cious scraps  she  dared  not  refuse  —  Maw,  who  had  a 
pride  as  fierce  and  keen  as  any !  It  was  devilish !  Oh, 
it  was  kind  of  Aunt  Mollie  to  give ;  it  was  the  taking  that 
came  so  bitter  hard.  And  then  they  weren't  genteel 
about  their  giving.  There  was  always  that  air  of  superi- 
ority, that  conscious  patronage,  as  now,  when  Uncle 
Clem,  breaking  off  his  conversation  with  the  invalid  in  the 
next  room  about  the  price  of  mutton  on  the  hoof  and 
the  chances  of  the  Democrats'  getting  in  again,  stopped 
fiddling  with  his  thick  plated  watch  chain  and  grinned 
across  at  big  Tom  to  fling  his  undeviating  flower  of  wit: 

"  Runnin'  all  to  beef,  hain't  ye,  Tom,  boy?  Come  on 
down  to  the  market  an'  we'll  git  some  A  i  sirloins  outen 
ye,  anyway.     Do  your  folks  that  much  good." 

It  was  things  like  this  that  made  Luke  want  to  burn, 
poison,  or  shoot  Uncle  Clem.  He  was  not  a  bad  man, 
Uncle  Clem  —  a  thick  sandy  chunk  of  a  fellow,  given  to 
bright  neckties  and  a  jocosity  that  took  no  account  of 
feelings.  Shaped  a  little  like  a  log,  he  was  —  back  of 
his  head  and  back  of  his  neck  —  all  of  a  width.  Little 
lively  green  eyes  and  bristling  red  mustaches.  A  com- 
plexion a  society  bud  might  have  envied.  Why  was  it  a 
butcher  got  so  pink  and  white  and  sleek?  Pork,  that's 
what  Uncle  Clem  resembled,  Luke  thought  —  a  nice, 
smooth,  pale-fleshed  pig,  ready  to  be  skinned. 

His  turn  next !  When  crops  and  politics  failed  and  the 
joke  at  poor  Tom  —  Tom  always  giggled  inordinately  at 
it,  too  —  had  come  off,  there  was  sure  to  be  the  one  about 
himself  and  the  lame  duck  next.     To  divert  himself  of 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  417 

bored  expectation,  Luke  tumed  to  stare  at  his  cousin, 
S'norta. 

S'norta,  sitting  quietly  in  a  chair  across  the  room,  was 
seldom  known  to  be  emotional.  Indeed,  there  were  times 
when  Luke  wondered  whether  she  had  not  died  in  her 
chair.  •  One  had  that  feeling  about  S'norta,  so  motion- 
less was  she,  so  uncompromising  of  glance.  She  was 
very  prosperous-looking,  as  became  the  heiress  to  the 
Cheesman  meat  business  —  a  fat  little  girl  of  twelve, 
dressed  with  a  profusion  of  ruffles,  glass  pearls,  gilt 
buckles,  and  thick  tawny  curls  that  might  have  come 
straight  from  the  sausage  hook  in  her  papa's  shop. 

S'norta  had  been  consecrated  early  in  life  to  the  un- 
usual. Even  her  name  was  not  ordinary.  Her  roman- 
tic mother,  immersed  in  the  prenatal  period  in  the  hair- 
lifting  adventures  of  one  Senorita  Carmena,  could  think 
of  no  lovelier  appellation  when  her  darling  came  than 
the  first  portion  of  that  sloe-eyed  and  restless  lady's  title, 
which  she  conceived  to  be  baptismal ;  and  in  due  course 
she  had  conferred  it,  together  with  her  own  pronuncia- 
tion, on  her  child.  A  bold  man  stopping  in  at  Uncle 
Clem's  market,  as  Luke  knew,  had  once  tried  to  pro- 
nounce and  expound  the  cognomen  in  a  very  different 
fashion ;  but  he  had  been  hustled  unceremoniously  from 
the  place,  and  S'norta  remained  in  undisturbed  possession 
of  her  honors. 

Now  Luke  was  recalled  from  his  contemplation  by  his 
uncle's  voice  again.  A  lull  had  fallen  and  out  of  it  broke 
the  question  Luke  always  dreaded. 

"  Nat.  now !  "  said  Uncle  Clem,  leaning  forward,  his 
thick  fingers  clutching  his  fat  knees.  "  You  ain't  had  any 
news  of  him  since  quite  a  while  ago,  have  you  ?  "  The 
wit  that  was  so  preponderable  a  feature  of  Uncle  Clem's 
nature  bubbled  to  the  surface.  "  Dunno  but  he's  landed 
in  jail  a  spell  back  and  can't  git  out  again !  "  The  lively 
little  eyes  twinkled  appreciatively. 

Nobody  answered.  It  set  Maw's  mouth  in  a  thin,  hard 
line.     You  wouldn't  get  a  rise  out  of  old  Maw  with  such 


4i8  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

tactics  —  Maw,  who  believed  in  Nat,  soul  and  body.  Into 
Luke's  mind  flashed  suddenly  a  formless  half  prayer: 
"  Don't  let  'em  nag  her  now  —  make  'em  talk  other 
things !  " 

The  Lord,  in  the  guise  of  Aunt  Mollie,  answered  him. 
For  once,  Nat  and  Nat's  character  and  failings  did  not 
hold  her.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  voiced  something 
that  claimed  her  interest: 

"  Well,  Delia,  I  see  you  wasn't  out  at  the  Bisbee's 
funeral.  Though  I  don't  s'pose  anyone  really  expected 
you,  knowin'  how  things  goes  with  you.  Time  was, 
when  you  was  a  girl,  you  counted  in  as  big  as  any  and 
traveled  with  the  best ;  but  now  " —  she  paused  delicately, 
and  coughed  politely  with  an  appreciative  glance  round 
the  poor  room  — "  they  ain't  anyone  hereabouts  but's 
talkin'  about  it.  My  land,  it  was  swell !  I  couldn't  ask 
no  better  for  my  own.  Fourteen  cabs,  and  the  hearse 
sent  over  from  Rockville  —  all  pale  gray,  with  mottled 
gray  horses.     It  was  what  I  call  tasty. 

"  Matty  wasn't  what  you'd  call  well-off  —  not  as  lucky 
as  some  I  could  mention ;  but  she  certainly  went  off 
grand!  The  whole  Methodist  choir  was  out,  with  three 
numbers  in  broken  time ;  and  her  cousin's  brother-in-law 
from  out  West  —  some  kind  of  bishop  —  to  preach. 
Honest,  it  was  one  of  the  grandest  sermons  I  ever  heard ! 
Wasn't  it,  Clem  ?  " 

Uncle  Clem  cleared  his  throat  thoughtfully. 

"  Humiliatin' !  —  that's  what  I'd  call  it.  A  strong 
maur'l  sermon  all  round.  A  man  couldn't  hear  it  'thout 
bein'  humiliated  more  ways'n  one."  He  was  back  at  the 
watch-chain  again. 

"It's  a  pity  you  couldn't  of  gone,  Delia  —  you  an' 
Matty  always  was  so  intimate  too.  You  certainly  missed 
a  grand  treat,  I  can  tell  you;  though,  if  you  hadn't  the 
right  clothes  — " 

"  Well,  I  haven't,"  Maw  spoke  dryly.  "  I  don't  go  no- 
wheres,  as  you  know  —  not  even  church." 

"  I  s'pose  not.    Time  was  it  was  different,  though. 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  419 

Delia.  Ain't  nobody  but  talks  how  bad  off  you  are. 
Ann  Chester  said  she  seen  you  in  town  a  while  back  and 
wouldn't  of  knowed  it  was  you  if  it  hadn't  of  b'en  you 
was  wearin'  my  old  brown  cape,  an'  she  reconnized  it. 
Her  an'  me  got  'em  both  alike  to  the  same  store  in  Rock- 
ville.  You  was  so  changed,  she  said  she  couldn't  hardly 
believe  it  was  you  at  all." 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  myself  if  it  is,"  said  Maw 
grimly. 

"  Well,  's  I  was  sayin',  it  was  a  grand  funeral.  None 
better !  They  even  had  engraved  invites,  over  a  hundred 
printed  —  and  they  had  folks  from  all  over  the  state. 
They  give  Clem,  here,  the  contract  fur  the  supper 
meat  — " 

"  The  best  of  everything ! "  Uncle  Clem  broke  in. 
"  None  o'  your  cheap  graft.  Gimme  a  free  hand.  Jim 
Bisbee  tole  me  himself.  '  I  want  the  best  ye  got,'  he  sez; 
an'  I  give  it.  Spring  lamb  and  prime  ribs,  fancy  hotel 
style  — " 

"  An'  Em  Carson  baked  the  cakes  fur  'em,  sixteen  of 
'em ;  an'  Dickison  the  undertaker's  tellin'  all  over  they  got 
the  best  quality  shroud  he  carries.  Well,  you'll  find  it 
all  in  the  Bkveckly,  under  Death's  Busy  Sickle.  Jim  Bis- 
bee shore  set  a  store  by  Matty  oncet  she  was  dead.  It 
was  a  grand  affair,  Delia.  Not  but  what  we've  had  some 
good  ones  in  our  time  too." 

It  was  Aunt  Mollie's  turn  to  stare  pridefully  at  the 
Peel  plate  on  the  chimney  shelf. 

"  A  thing  like  that  sets  a  family  up,  sorta." 

Uncle  Clem  had  taken  out  a  fat  black  cigar  with  a  red- 
white-and-blue  band.  He  bit  off  the  end  and  alter- 
nately thrust  it  between  his  lips  or  felt  of  its  thickness 
with  a  fondling  thumb  and  finger.  Luke,  watching,  felt 
a  sudden  compassion  for  the  cigar.     It  looked  so  harried. 

"  I  always  say,"  Aunt  MolHe  droned  on,  "  a  person 
shows  up  what  he  really  is  at  the  last  —  what  him  and  his 
family  stands  fur.  It's  what  kind  of  a  funeral  you've 
got  that  counts  —  who  comes  out  an'  all.     An'  that  was 


420  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

true  with  Matty.  There  wa'n't  a  soul  worth  namin'  that 
wasn't  out  to  hers." 

How  Aunt  Molly  could  gouge  —  even  amicably !  And 
funerals!  What  a  subject,  even  in  a  countryside  where 
a  funeral  is  a  social  event  and  the  manner  of  its  furniture 
marks  a  definite  social  status!  Would  they  never  go? 
But  it  seemed  at  last  they  would.  Incredibly,  somehow, 
they  were  taking  their  leave,  Aunt  Mollie  kissing  Maw 
good-by,  with  the  usual  remark  about  "  hopin'  the  things 
would  help  some,"  and  about  being  "  glad  to  spare  some- 
thin*  from  my  great  plenty." 

She  and  Senorita  were  presently  packed  into  the  car 
and  Tom  had  gone  out  to  goggle  at  Uncle  Clem  crank- 
ing up,  the  cold  cigar  still  between  his  lips.  Now  they 
were  off  —  choking  and  snorting  their  way  out  of 
the  wood-yard  and  down  the  lane.  Aunt  Mollie's  pink 
feather  streamed  into  the  breeze  like  a  pennon  of 
triumph. 

Maw  was  standing  by  the  stove,  a  queer  look  in  her 
eyes;  so  queer  that  Luke  didn't  speak  at  once.  He 
limped  over  to  finger  the  spilled  treasures  on  the  table. 

"Gee!  Lookit,  Maw!  More  o'  them  prunes  we  liked 
so ;  an'  a  bag  o'  early  peaches ;  an'  fresh  soup  meat  fur  a 
week  — " 

A  queer  trembling  had  seized  his  mother.  She  was  so 
white  he  was  frightened. 

"  Did  you  sense  what  it  meant,  Luke  —  what  Aunt 
Molly  told  us  about  Matty  Bisbee?  We  was  left  out 
deliberate  —  that's  what  it  meant.  Her  an'  me  that  was 
raised  together  an'  went  to  school  and  picnics  all  our  girl- 
hood together!  Never  could  see  one  'thout  the  other 
when  we  was  growin'  up  —  Jim  Bisbee  knew  that  too! 
But  " —  her  voice  wavered  miserably  — "  I  didn't  get  no 
invite  to  her  funeral.  T  don't  count  no  more,  Lukey. 
None  of  us,  anywheres.  .  .  .  We're  jest  them  poor 
Gawd-forsaken  Hayneses." 

She  slipped  down  suddenly  into  a  chair  and  covered 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  421 

her  face,  her  thin  shoulders  shaking.  Luke  went  and 
touched  her  awkwardly.  Times  he  would  have  liked  to 
put  his  arms  round  Maw  —  now  more  than  ever ;  but  he 
didn't  dare. 

"  Don't  take  on,  Maw !     Don't !  " 

"  Who's  takin'  on?"  She  hfted  a  fierce,  sallow,  tear- 
wet  face.  '*  Hain't  no  use  makin'  a  fuss.  All's  left's  to 
work  —  to  work,  an'  die  after  a  while." 

"  I  hate  'em !     Uncle  Clem  an'  her,  I  mean." 

"  They  mean  kindness  —  their  way."  But  her  tears 
started  afresh. 

"  I  hate  'em !  "  Luke's  voice  grew  shriller.  "  I'd  like 
—  I'd  like  —     Oh,  damn  'em !  " 

"  Don't  swear,  boy  !  " 

It  was  Tom  who  broke  in  on  them.  "  It's  a  letter  from 
Rural  Free  Delivery.     Pie  jest  dropped  it." 

He  came  up,  grinning,  with  the  missive.  The  mother's 
fingers  closed  on  it  nervously. 

"  From  Nat,  mebbe  —  he  ain't  wrote  in  months." 

But  it  wasn't  from  Nat.  It  was  a  bill  for  a  last  pay- 
ment on  the  "  new  harrow,"  bought  three  years  before. 


II 

One  of  the  earliest  memories  Luke  could  recall  was 
the  big  blurred  impression  of  Nat's  face  bending  over 
his  crib  of  an  evening.  At  first  flat,  indefinite,  remote 
as  the  moon,  it  grew  with  time  to  more  human,  intimate 
proportions.  It  became  the  face  of  "  brother,"  the  black- 
haired,  blue-eyed  big  boy  who  rollicked  on  the  floor  with 
or  danced  him  on  his  knee  to  — 

This  is  the  way  the  lady  rides! 
Tritty-trot-trot ;  tritty-trot-trot ! 

Or  who.  returning  from  school  and  meeting  his  faltering 
feet  in  the  lane,  would  toss  him  up  on  his  shoulder  and 
canter  him  home  with  mad,  merry  scamperings. 


422  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

Not  that  school  and  Nat  ever  had  much  in  common. 
Even  as  a  little  shaver  Luke  had  realized  that.  Nat  was 
the  family  wilding,  the  migratory  bird  that  yearned  for 
other  climes.  There  were  the  times  when  he  sulked  long 
days  by  the  fire,  and  the  springs  and  autumns  when  he 
played  an  unending  round  of  hookey.  There  were  the 
days  when  he  was  sent  home  from  school  in  disgrace ; 
when  protesting  notes,  and  sometimes  even  teacher,  ar- 
rived. 

"  It's  not  that  Nat's  a  bad  boy,  Mrs,  Haynes,"  he  re- 
membered one  teacher  saying ;  "  but  he's  so  active,  so  full 
of  restless  animal  spirits.  How  are  we  ever  going  to 
tame  him?  " 

Maw  didn't  know  the  answer  —  that  was  sure.  She 
loved  Nat  best  —  Luke  had  guessed  it  long  ago,  by  the 
tone  of  her  voice  when  she  spoke  to  him,  by  the  touch 
of  her  hand  on  his  head,  or  the  size  of  his  apple  turnover, 
so  much  bigger  than  the  others'.  Maw  must  have  built 
heavily  on  her  hopes  of  Nat  those  days  —  her  one  per- 
fect child.  She  was  so  proud  of  him !  In  the  face  of 
all  ominous  prediction  she  would  fling  her  head  high. 

"  My  Nat's  a  Peel !  "  she  would  say.  "  Can't  never  tell 
how  he'll  turn  out." 

The  farmers  thereabouts  thought  they  could  tell  her. 
Nat  was  into  one  scrape  after  another  —  nothing  espe- 
cially wicked ;  but  a  compound  of  the  bubbling  mischief 
in  a  too  ardent  life  —  robbed  orchards,  broken  windows, 
practical  jokes,  Halloween  jinks,  vagrant  whimsies  of  an 
active  imagination. 

It  was  just  that  Nat's  quarters  were  too  small  for  him, 
chiefly.  Even  he  realized  this  presently.  Luke  would 
never  forget  the  sloppy  March  morning  when  Nat  went 
away.  He  was  wakened  by  a  flare  of  candle  in  the  room 
he  shared  with  his  brothers.  Tom,  the  twelve-year-old, 
lay  sound  asleep ;  but  Nat,  the  big  man  of  fifteen,  was  up, 
dressed,  bending  over  something  he  was  writing  on  a 
paper  at  the  bureau.  There  was  a  fat  little  bundle  be- 
side him,  done  up  in  a  blue-and-white  bandanna. 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  423 

Day  was  still  far  off.  The  window  showed  black; 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  thaw  running  off  the  eaves ; 
the  whitewashed  wall  was  painted  with  grotesque  leap- 
ing shadows  by  the  candle  flame.  At  the  first  murmur, 
Nat  had  come  and  put  his  arms  about  him. 

"  Don't  ye  holler,  little  un ;  don't  ye  do  it !  'Tain't 
nothin' —  on'y  Natty's  goin'  away  a  spell ;  quite  a  spell, 
little  un.  Now  kiss  Natty.  .  .  .  That's  right!  .  .  .  An' 
you  lay  still  there  an'  don't  holler.  An'  listen  here,  too : 
Natty's  goin'  to  bring  ye  somethin' — a  grand  red  ball, 
mebbe  —  if  you're  good.     You  wait  an'  see!  " 

But  Natty  hadn't  brought  the  ball.  Two  years  had 
passed  without  a  scrap  of  news  of  him;  and  then  —  he 
was  back.  Slipped  into  the  village  on  a  freighter  at  dusk 
one  evening.  A  forlorn  scarecrow  Nat  was ;  so  tattered 
of  garment,  so  smeared  of  coal  dust,  you  scarcely  knew 
him.  So  full  of  strange  sophistications,  too,  and  new 
trails  of  thought  —  so  oddly  rich  of  experience.  He 
gave  them  his  story.  The  tale  of  an  exigent  life  in  a 
great  city;  a  piecework  life  made  of  such  flotsam  labors 
as  he  could  pick  up,  of  spells  of  loafing,  of  odd  incredible 
associates,  of  months  tagging  a  circus,  picking  up  a  task 
here  and  there,  of  long  journeyings  through  the  country, 
"  riding  the  bumpers  " —  even  of  alms  asked  at  back 
doors ! 

"  Oh,  not  a  tramp,  Nat  I  " 

The  hurt  had  quivered  all  through  Maw. 

But  Nat  only  laughed. 

"  Jiminy  Christmas,  it  was  great !  " 

He  had  thrown  back  his  head,  laughing.  That  was 
Nat  all  through  —  sipping  of  life  generously,  no  matter 
in  what  form. 

He  had  stayed  just  three  weeks.  He  had  spent  them 
chiefly  defeating  Maw's  plans  to  keep  him.  ^A/anderlust 
kept  him  longer  the  next  time.  That  was  eight  years  ago. 
Since  then  he  had  been  back  home  three  times,  Never 
so  poor  and  shabby  as  at  first —  indeed,  Nat's  wander- 
ings had  prospered  more  or  less-— but  still  retnote,  somer 


424  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

what  mysterious,  touched  by  new  habits  of  life,  new  ways 
of  speech. 

The  countryside,  remembering  the  manner  of  his  first 
return,  shook  its  head  darkly.  A  tramp  —  a  burglar, 
even.  God  knew  what !  When,  on  his  third  visit  home, 
he  brought  an  air  of  extreme  opulence,  plenty  of  money, 
and  a  sartorial  perfection  undreamed  of  locally,  the  heads 
wagged  even  harder.  A  gambler  probably ;  a  ne'er-do- 
well  certainly;  and  one  to  break  his  mother's  heart  in 
the  end. 

But  none  of  this  was  true,  as  Luke  knew.  It  was  just 
that  Nat  hated  farming ;  that  he  liked  to  rove  and  take  a 
floater's  fortune.  He  had  a  taste  for  the  mechanical  and 
followed  incomprehensible  quests.  San  Francisco  had 
known  him ;  the  big  races  at  Cincinnati ;  the  hangars  of 
Mineola.  He  was  restless  —  Nat ;  but  he  was  respect- 
able. No  one  could  look  into  his  merry  blue  eyes  and 
not  know  it.  H  his  labors  were  uncertain  and  sporadic, 
and  his  address  that  of  a  nomad,  it  all  sufficed,  at  least 
for  himself. 

H  at  times  Luke  felt  a  stirring  doubt  that  Nat  was  not 
acquitting  himself  of  his  family  duty,  he  quenched  it 
fiercely.  Nat  was  different.  He  was  born  free ;  you 
could  tell  it  in  his  talk,  in  his  way  of  thinking.  He  was 
like  an  eagle  and  hated  to  be  bound  by  earthly  ties.  He 
cared  for  them  all  in  his  own  way.  Times  when  he  was 
back  he  helped  Maw  all  he  could.  If  he  brought  money 
he  gave  of  it  freely;  if  he  had  none,  just  the  look  of  his 
eye  or  the  ready  jest  on  his  lip  helped. 

Upstairs  in  a  drawer  of  the  old  pine  bureau  lay  some 
of  Nat's  discarded  clothing  —  incredible  garments  to 
Luke.  The  lame  boy,  going  to  them  sometimes,  fingered 
them,  pondering,  reconstructing  for  himself  the  fabric  of 
Nat's  adventures,  his  life.  The  ice-cream  pants  of  a  by- 
gone day ;  the  pointed,  shriveled  yellow  Oxfords !  the  silk- 
front  shirt ;  the  odd  cuff  link  or  stud  —  they  were  like  a 
genie-in-a-bottle,  these  poor  clothes!  You  rubbed  them 
and  a  whole  Arabian  Night's  dream  unfurled  from  them. 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  425 

And  Nat  lived  it  all !  But  people  —  dull  stodgy  peo- 
ple like  Uncle  Clem  and  Aunt  Mollie,  and  old  Beckon- 
ridge  down  at  the  store,  and  a  dozen  others  —  these  criti- 
cized him  for  not  "  workin'  reg'lar "  and  giving  a  full 
account  of  himself. 

Luke,  thinking  of  all  this,  would  flush  with  impotent 
anger. 

"  Oh,  let  'em  talk,  though !  He'll  show  'em  some  day ! 
They  dunno  Nat.  He'll  do  somethin'  big  fur  us  all  some 
day." 

Ill 

Midsummer  came  to  trim  the  old  farm  with  her 
wreaths.  It  was  the  time  Luke  loved  best  of  all  —  the 
long,  sweet,  loam-scented  evenings  with  Maw  and  Tom 
on  the  old  porch ;  and  sometimes  —  when  there  was  no 
fog  —  Paw's  cot,  wheeled  out  in  the  stillness.  But  Maw 
was  not  herself  this  summer.  Something  had  fretted  and 
eaten  into  her  heart  like  an  acid  ever  since  Aunt  Mollie's 
visit  and  the  news  of  Matty  Bisbee's  funeral. 

When,  one  by  one,  the  early  summer  festivities  of  the 
neighborhood  had  slipped  by,  with  no  inclusion  of  the 
Hayneses,  she  had  fallen  to  brooding  deeply, —  to  feeling 
more  bitterly  than  ever  the  ignominy  and  wretchedness 
of  their  position. 

Luke  tried  to  comfort  her ;  to  point  out  that  this  sum- 
mer was  like  any  other ;  that  they  "  never  had  mattered 
much  to  folks."  But  Maw  continued  to  brood ;  to  allude 
vaguely  and  insistently  to  "  the  straw  that  broke  the 
camel's  back."  It  was  bitter  hard  to  have  Maw  like  that 
—  home  was  bad  enough,  anyway.  Sometimes  on  clear, 
soft  nights,  when  the  moon  came  out  all  splendid  and  the 
"  peepers  "  sang  so  plaintively  in  the  Hollow,  the  boy's 
heart  would  fill  and  grow  enormous  in  his  chest  with  the 
intolerable  sadness  he  felt. 

Then  Maw's  mood  lifted  —  pierced  by  a  ray  of  heav- 
enly sunlight  —  for  Nat  came  home ! 


426  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

Luke  saw  him  first  —  heard  him,  rather;  for  Nat 
came  up  the  lane  —  oh,  miraculous!  —  driving  a  motor 
car.  It  was  not  a  car  like  Uncle  Clem's  —  not  even  a 
stepbrother  to  it.  It  was  low  and  almost  noiseless,  and 
shaped  like  one  of  those  queer  torpedoes  they  were  fight- 
ing with  across  the  water.  It  was  colored  a  soft  dust- 
gray  and  trimmed  with  nickel ;  and,  huge  and  powerful 
though  it  was,  it  swung  to  a  mere  touch  of  Nat's  hand. 

Nat  stood  before  them,  clad  in  black  leather  Norfolk 
and  visored  cap  and  leggings. 

"  Look  like  a  fancy  brand  of  chauffeur,  don't  I  ?  "  he 
laughed,  with  the  easy  resumption  of  a  long-broken  rela- 
tion that  was  so  characteristically  Nat. 

But  Nat  was  not  a  chauffeur.  Something  much  bigger 
and  grander.  The  news  he  brought  them  on  top  of  it  all 
took  their  breaths  away.  Nat  was  a  special  demon- 
strator, out  on  a  brand-new  high-class  job  for  a  house 
handling  a  special  line  of  high-priced  goods.  And  he 
was  to  go  to  Europe  in  another  week  —  did  they  get  it 
straight  ?  Europe !  Jiminy !  He  and  another  fellow 
were  taking  cars  over  to  France  and  England. 

No ;  they  didn't  quite  get  it.  They  could  not  grasp  its 
significance,  but  clung  humbly,  instead,  to  the  mere  glori- 
ous fact  of  his  presence. 

He  stayed  two  days  and  a  night;  and  summer  was 
never  lovelier.  Maw  was  like  a  girl,  and  there  was  such 
a  killing  of  pullets  and  extravagance  with  new-laid  eggs 
as  they  had  never  known  before.  At  the  last  he  gave 
them  all  presents. 

"  Tell  the  truth,"  he  laughed,  "  I'm  stony  broke. 
'Tisn't  mine,  all  this  stuff  you  see.  I  got  some  kale  in 
advance  —  not  much,  but  enough  to  swing  me ;  but  of 
course,  the  outfit's  the  company's.  But  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing:  I'm  going  to  bring  some  long  green  home  with  me, 
you  can  bet !  And  when  I  do  " —  Nat  had  given  Maw  a 
prodigious  nudge  in  the  ril)s  — "  when  I  do  —  I  ain't 
goin'  to  stay  an  old  ])achelor  forever !     Do  you  get  that  ?  " 

Maw's  smile  had  faded  for  a  moment.     But  the  pres- 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  427 

ents  were  fine  —  a  new  knife  for  Tom,  a  book  for  Luke, 
and  twenty  whole  round  dollars  for  Maw,  enough  to  pay 
that  old  grocery  bill  down  at  Beckonridge's  and  Paw's 
new  invoice  of  patent  medicine. 

They  all  stood  on  the  porch  and  watched  him  as  far 
as  they  could  see;  and  Maw's  black  mood  didn't  return 
for  a  whole  week. 

Evenings  now  they  had  something  different  to  talk 
about  —  journeys  in  seagoing  craft;  foreign  countries 
and  the  progress  of  the  "  Ee-ropean  "  war,  and  Nat's 
likelihood  —  he  had  laughed  at  this  —  of  touching  even 
its  fringe.  They  worked  it  all  up  from  the  boiler-plate 
war  news  in  the  Bi-zveekly  and  Luke's  school  geography. 
Yes ;  for  a  little  space  the  blackness  was  lifted. 

Then  came  the  August  morning  when  Paw  died.  This 
was  an  unexpected  and  unsettling  contingency.  One 
doesn't  look  for  a  "  chronic's  "  doing  anything  so  un- 
scheduled and  foreign  to  routine;  but  Paw  spoiled  all 
precedent.  They  found  him  that  morning  with  his  heart 
quite  still,  and  Luke  knew  they  stood  in  the  presence  of 
imminent  tragedy. 

It's  all  very  well  to  peck  along,  hand-to-mouth  fashion. 
You  can  manage  a  living  of  sorts;  and  farm  produce, 
even  scanty,  unskillfully  contrived,  and  the  charity  of 
relatives,  and  the  patience  of  tradesmen,  will  see  you 
through.  But  a  funeral  —  that's  different !  Undertaker 
—  that  means  money.  Was  it  possible  that  the  sordid 
epic  of  their  lives  must  be  capped  by  the  crowning  insult, 
the  Poormaster  and  the  Pauper's  Field?  If  only  poor 
Paw  could  have  waited  a  little  before  he  claimed  the 
spotlight  —  until  prices  fell  a  little  or  Nat  got  back  with 
that  "  long  green  " ! 

Maw  swallowed  her  bitter  pill. 

She  went  to  see  Uncle  Clem  and  ask!  And  Uncle 
Clem  was  kind. 

"  He'll  buy  a  casket  —  he's  wilHn'  fur  that  —  an'  send 
a  wreath  and  pay  fur  notices,  an'  even  half  on  a  buryin' 
lot;  but  he  said  he  couldn't  do  no  more.     The  high  cost 


428  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

has  hit  him  too.  .  .  .  An'  where  are  we  to  git  the  rest? 
He  said  —  at  the  last  —  it  might  be  better  all  round  fur 
us  to  take  what  Ellick  Flick  would  gimme  outen  the 
Poor  Fund — "  Maw  hadn't  been  able  to  go  on  for  a 
spell. 

A  pauper's  burial  for  Paw !  Surely  Maw  would  man- 
age better  than  that !  She  tried  to  find  a  better  way  that 
very  night. 

"  This  farm's  mortgaged  to  the  neck ;  but  I  calculate 
Ben  Travis  won't  care  if  I'm  a  mind  to  put  Paw  in  the 
south  field.  It  hain't  no  mortal  good  fur  anything  else, 
anyhow ;  an'  he  can  lay  there  if  we  want.  It's  a  real 
pleasant  place.  An'  I  can  git  the  preacher  myself  —  I'll 
give  him  the  rest  o'  the  broilers;  an'  they's  seasoned 
hickory  plankin'  in  the  lean-to.  Tom,  you  come  along 
with  me." 

All  night  Luke  had  lain  and  listened  to  the  sound  of 
big  Tom's  saw  and  hammer.  Tom  was  real  handy  if  you 
told  him  how  —  and  Maw  would  be  showing  him  just 
how  to  shape  it  all  out.  Each  hammer  blow  struck  deep 
on  the  boy's  heart. 

Maw  lined  the  home-made  box  herself  with  soft  old 
quilts,  and  washed  and  dressed  her  dead  herself  in  his 
faded  outlawed  wedding  clothes.  And  on  a  morning  soft 
and  sweet,  with  a  hint  of  rain  in  the  air,  they  rode  down 
in  the  farm  wagon  to  the  south  field  together  —  Paw  and 
Maw  and  Luke  —  with  big  Tom  walking  beside  the  aged 
knobby  horse's  head. 

Abel  Gazzam,  a  neighbor,  had  seen  to  the  grave ;  and  in 
due  course  the  little  cavalcade  reached  the  appointed  spot 
inside  the  snake  fence  —  a  quiet  place  in  a  corner,  under 
a  graybeard  elm.  As  Maw  had  said,  it  was  "  a  pleasant 
place  for  Paw  to  lay  in." 

There  were  some  old  neighbors  out  in  their  own  rigs, 
and  Uncle  Clem  had  brought  his  family  up  in  his  car, 
with  a  proper  wreath ;  and  Reverend  Kearns  came  up  and 
—  declining  all  lien  on  the  broilers  —  read  the  burial 
service,  and  spoke  a  little  about  poor  Paw.     But  it  wasn't 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  429 

a  funeral,  no  how.  No  supper ;  no  condolence ;  no  view- 
ing *'  the  remains  " —  not  even  a  handshake !  Maw  didn't 
even  look  at  her  old  friends,  riding  back  home  between 
Tom  and  Luke,  with  her  head  fiercely  high  in  the  air, 

A  dull  depression  settled  on  Luke's  heart.  It  was  all 
up  with  the  Hayneses  now.  They  had  saved  Paw  from 
charity  with  their  home-made  burial;  but  what  had  it 
availed  ?  They  might  as  well  have  gone  the  whole  figure. 
Everybody  knew !  There  wasn't  any  comeback  for  a 
thing  like  this.  They  were  just  nobodies  —  the  social 
pariahs  of  the  district. 

IV    . 

Somehow,  after  the  fashion  of  other  years,  they  got 
their  meager  crops  in  —  turnips,  potatoes  and  Hubbard 
squashes  put  up  in  the  vegetable  cellar ;  oats  cradled ;  corn 
husked ;  the  buckwheat  ready  for  the  mill ;  even  Tom's 
crooked  furrows  for  the  spring  sowings  made.  Some- 
how, Maw  helping  like  a  man  and  Tom  obeying  like  a 
docile  child,  they  took  toll  of  their  summer.  And  sud- 
denly September  was  at  their  heels  —  and  then  the 
equinox. 

It  seemed  to  Luke  that  it  had  never  rained  so  much 
before.  Brown  vapor  rose  eternally  from  the  valley 
flats ;  the  hilltops  lay  lost  entirely  in  clotted  murk.  By 
periods  hard  rains,  like  showers  of  steel  darts,  beat  on 
the  soaking  earth.  Gypsy  gales  of  wind  went  ricocheting 
among  the  farm  buildings,  setting  the  shingles  to  snapping 
and  singing;  the  windows  moaned  and  rattled.  The 
sourest  weather  the  boy  could  remember! 

And  on  the  worst  day  of  all  they  got  the  news.  Out 
of  the  mail  box  in  the  lane  Luke  got  it  —  going  down 
under  an  old  rubber  cape  in  a  steady  blinding  pour.  It 
got  all  damp  —  the  letter,  foreign  postmark,  stamp  and 
all  —  by  the  time  he  put  it  into  Maw's  hand. 

It  was  a  double  letter  —  or  so  one  judged,  first  open- 
ing it.     There  was  another  inside,  complete,  sealed,  and 


430  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

addressed  in  Nat's  hand ;  but  one  must  read  the  pape. 
inclosed  with  it  first  —  that  was  obvious.  It  was  just 
a  strip,  queer,  official  looking,  with  a  few  lines  typed  upon 
it  and  a  black  heading  that  sprang  out  at  one  strangely. 
They  read  it  together  —  or  tried  to.  At  first  they  got 
no  sense  from  it.  Paris  —  from  clear  off  in  France  — 
and  then  the  words  below  —  and  Maw's  name  at  the  top, 
just  like  the  address  on  the  newspaper : 

Mrs.  Jere  Haynes, 

Stony  Brook,  New  York. 

It  was  for  Maw  all  right.     Then  quite  suddenly  the 
words  came  clear  through  the  blur : 

Mrs.  Jere  Haynes, 

Stony  Brook,  New  York. 
Dear  Madam:  We  regret  to  inform  you  that  the  of- 
ficial communique  for  September  sixth  contains  the  tid- 
ings that  the  writer  of  the  enclosed  letter,  Nathaniel 
Haynes,  of  Stony  Brook,  New  York,  U.  S.  A.,  was  killed 
while  on  duty  as  an  ambulance  driver  in  the  Sector  of 
Verdun,  and  has  been  buried  in  that  region.  Further  de- 
tails will  follow. 


The  American  Ambulance,  Paris. 

Even  when  she  realized,  Maw  never  cried  out.  She 
sat  wetting  her  lips  oddly,  looking  at  the  words  that  had 
come  like  evil  birds  across  the  wide  spaces  of  earth.  It 
was  Luke  who  remembered  the  other  letter : 

"My  dear  kind  folks  —  Father,  Mother  and  Brothers: 
I  guess  I  dare  call  you  that  when  I  get  far  enough  away 
from  you.  Perhaps  you  won't  mind  when  I  tell  you  my 
news. 

"  Well  we  came  over  from  England  last  Thursday  and 
struck  into  our  contract  here.     Things  was  going  pretty 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER       431 

good ;  but  you  might  guess  yours  truly  couldn't  stand  the 
dead  end  of  things.  1  bet  Maw's  guessed  already.  Well 
sir  it's  that  roving  streak  in  me  I  guess.  Never  could 
stick  to  nothing  steady.  It  got  me  bad  when  I  got  here 
any  how. 

"  To  cut  it  short  I  thro  wed  up  my  job  with  the  firm 
yesterday  and  have  volunteered  as  an  Ambulance  driver 
Nothing  but  glory  ;  but  I'm  going  to  like  it  fine !  They're 
short-handed  anyhow  and  a  fellow  likes  to  help  what  he 
can.  Wish  I  could  send  a  little  money ;  but  it  took  all  I 
had  to  outfit  me.  Had  to  cough  up  eight  bucks  for  a 
suit  of  underclothes.     What  do  you  know  about  that? 

"  You  can  write  me  in  care  of  the  Ambulance,  Paris. 

"  Now  Maw  don't  worry !  I'm  not  going  to  fight.  I 
did  try  to  get  into  the  Foreign  Legion  but  had  no  chance. 
I'm  all  right.  Think  of  me  as  a  nice  little  Red  Cross  boy 
and  the  Wise  Willie  on  the  gas  wagon.  And  won't  I 
have  the  hot  stuff  to  make  old  Luke's  eyes  pop  out ! 
Hope  Paw's  legs  are  better.  And  Maw  have  a  kiss  on 
me.  Mebbe  you  folks  think  I  don't  appreciate  you.  If 
I  was  any  good  at  writing  I'd  tell  you  different. 
"  Your  Son  and  Brother, 

"  Nat  Haynes." 

The  worst  of  it  all  was  about  Maw's  not  crying  — 
just  sitting  there  staring  at  the  fire,  or  where  the  fire  had 
been  when  the  wood  had  died  out  of  neglect.  It's  not  in 
reason  that  a  woman  shouldn't  cry,  Luke  felt.  He  tried 
some  words  of  comfort : 

"He's  safe,  anyhow,  Maw — 'member  that!  That's  a 
whole  lot  too.  Didn't  always  know  that,  times  he  was 
rollin'  round  so  over  here.  You  worried  a  whole  lot 
about  him,  you  know." 

But  Maw  didn't  answer.  She  seldom  spoke  at  all  — 
moved  about  as  little  as  possible.  When  she  had  put  out 
food  for  him  and  Tom  she  always  went  back  to  her  cor- 
ner and  stared  into  the  fire.  Luke  had  to  bring  a  plate 
to.  her  and  coax  her  to  eat.     Even  the  day  Uncle  Clem 


432  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

and  Aunt  Mollie  came  up  she  did  not  notice  them.  Only 
once  she  spoke  of  Nat  to  Luke. 

!*  You  loved  him  the  most,  didn't  ye,  Maw  ?  "  he  asked 
timidly  one  dreary  evening. 

She  answered  in  a  sort  of  dull  surprise. 

"  Why,  lad,  he  was  my  first !  "  she  said ;  and  after  a  bit, 
as  though  to  herself :  "  His  head  was  that  round  and 
shiny  when  he  was  a  little  fellow  it  was  like  to  a  little 
round  apple.  I  mind,  before  he  ever  come,  I  bought  me 
a  cap  fur  him  over  to  Rockville,  with  a  blue  bow  onto  it. 
He  looked  awful  smart  an'  pretty  in  it." 

Sometimes  in  the  night  Luke,  sleeping  ill  and  thinking 
long,  lay  and  listened  for  possible  sounds  from  Maw's 
room.  Perhaps  she  cried  in  the  nights.  If  she  only 
would  —  it  would  help  break  the  tension  for  them  all. 
But  he  never  heard  anything  but  the  rain  —  steadily, 
miserably  beating  on  the  sodden  shingles  overhead. 

It  was  only  Luke  who  watched  the  mail  box  now.  One 
morning  his  journey  to  it  bore  fruit.  No  sting  any 
longer ;  no  fear  in  the  thick  foreign  letter  he  carried. 

"  It'll  tell  ye  all's  to  it,  I  bet !  "  he  said  eagerly. 

Maw  seemed  scarcely  interested.  It  was  Luke  who 
broke  the  seal  and  read  it  aloud. 

It  was  written  from  the  Ambulance  Headquarters,  in 
Paris  —  written  by  a  man  of  rare  insight,  of  fine  and 
delicate  perception.  All  that  Nat's  family  might  have 
wished  to  learn  he  sought  to  tell  them.  He  had  himself 
investigated  Nat's  story  and  he  gave  it  all  fully  and 
freely.  He  spoke  in  praise  of  Nat ;  of  his  friendly  associ- 
ations with  the  Ambulance  men :  of  his  good  nature  and 
cheerful  spirits ;  his  popularity  and  ready  willingness  to 
serve.     People,  one  felt,  had  loved  Nat  over  there. 

He  wrote  of  the  preliminary  duties  in  Paris,  the  prep- 
arations —  of  Nat's  final  going  to  join  one  of  the  three 
sections  working  round  Verdun.  It  wasn't  easy  work 
that  waited  for  Nat  there.  It  was  a  stiff  contract  guid- 
ing the  little  ambulance  over  the  shell-rutted  roads,  with 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  433 

deftness  and  precision,  to  those  distant  dressing  stations 
where  the  hurt  soldiers  waited  for  him.  It  was  a  picture 
that  thrilled  Luke  and  made  his  pulses  tingle  —  the  black- 
ness of  the  nights;  the  rumble  of  moving  artillery  and 
troops ;  the  flash  of  starlights ;  the  distant  crackling  of 
rifle  fire ;  the  steady  thunder  of  heavy  guns. 

And  the  shells !  It  was  mighty  close  they  swept  to  a 
fellow,  whistling,  shrieking,  low  overhead ;  falling  to  tear 
out  great  gouges  in  the  earth.  It  was  enough  to  wreck 
one's  nerve  utterly;  but  the  fellows  that  drove  were  all 
nerve.  Just  part  of  the  day's  work  to  them!  And  that 
was  Nat  too.  Nat  hadn't  known  what  fear  was  —  he'd 
eaten  it  alive.  The  adventurer  in  him  had  gone  out  to 
meet  it  joyously. 

Nat  was  only  on  his  third  trip  when  tragedy  had  come 
to  him.  He  and  a  companion  were  seeking  a  dressing 
station  in  the  cellar  of  a  little  ruined  house  in  an  obscure 
French  village,  when  a  shell  had  burst  right  at  their  feet, 
so  to  speak.  That  was  all.  Simple  as  that.  Nat  was 
dead  instantly  and  his  companion  —  oh,  Nat  was  really 
the  lucky  one.  ,  .  . 

Luke  had  to  stop  for  a  little  time.  One  couldn't  go  on 
at  once  before  a  thing  Hke  that.  ,  .  .  When  he  did,  it 
was  to  leave  behind  the  darkness,  the  shell-torn  houses, 
the  bruised  earth,  the  racked  and  mutilated  humans.  .  .  . 
Reading  on,  it  was  like  emerging  from  Hades  into  a 
great  Peace. 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  convey  to  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Haynes,  some  impression  of  the  moving  and  beauti- 
ful ceremony  with  which  your  son  was  laid  to  rest  on  the 
morning  of  September  ninth,  in  the  little  village  of  Au- 
court.  Imagine  a  warm,  sunny,  late-summer  day,  and  a 
village  street  sloping  up  a  hillside,  filled  with  soldiers  in 
faded,  dusty  blue,  and  American  Ambulance  drivers  in 
khaki. 

"  In  the  open  door  of  one  of  the  houses,  the  front  of 
which  was  covered   with   the  tri-color  of   France,  the 


434  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

coffin  was  placed,  wrapped  in  a  great  French  flag,  and 
covered  with  flowers  and  wreaths  sent  by  the  various 
American  sections.  At  the  head  a  small  American  flag 
was  placed,  on  which  was  pinned  the  Croix  de  Guerre  — 
a  gold  star  on  a  red-and-green  ribbon  —  a  tribute  from 
the  army  general  to  the  boy  who  gave  his  life  for 
France. 

"  A  priest,  with  six  soldier  attendants,  led  the  proces- 
sion from  the  courtyard.  Six  more  soldiers  bore  the  cof- 
fin, the  Americans  and  representatives  of  the  army 
branches  following,  bearing  wreaths.  After  these  came 
the  General  of  the  Army  Corps,  with  a  group  of  officers, 
and  a  detachment  of  soldiers  with  arms  reversed.  At 
the  foot  of  the  hill  a  second  detachment  fell  in  and  joined 
them.  .  .  . 

"  The  scene  was  unforgettable,  beautiful  and  impres- 
sive. In  the  little  church  a  choir  of  soldiers  sang  and  a 
soldier-priest  played  the  organ,  while  the  Chaplain  of  the 
Army  Division  held  the  burial  service.  The  chaplain's 
sermon  I  have  asked  to  have  reproduced  and  sent  to  you, 
together  with  other  efi^ects  of  your  son's.  .  .  . 

"  The  chaplain  spoke  most  beautifully  and  at  length, 
telling  very  tenderly  what  it  meant  to  the  French  people 
that  an  American  should  give  his  life  while  trying  to 
help,  them  in  the  hour  of  their  extremity.  The  name  of 
this  chaplain  is  Henri  Deligny,  Aumonier  Militaire,  Am- 
bulance 16-27,  Sector  112;  and  he  was  assisted  by  the 
permanent  cure  of  the  little  church.  Abbe  Blondelle,  who 
wishes  me  to  assure  you  that  he  will  guard  most  rever- 
ently your  son's  grave,  and  be  there  to  receive  you  when 
the  day  may  come  that  you  shall  wish  to  visit  it. 

"  After  leaving  the  church  the  procession  marched  to 
the  military  cemetery,  where  your  son's  body  was  laid 
beside  the  hundreds  of  others  who  have  died  for  France. 
Both  the  lieutenant  and  general  here  paid  tributes  of  ap- 
preciation, which  I  will  have  sent  to  you.  The  general, 
various  officers  of  the  army,  and  ambulance  assisted  in 
the  last  rites.  .  .  . 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER       435 

"  I  have  brought  back  and  will  send  you  the  Croix  de 
Guerre.  ..." 

Oh,  but  you  couldn't  read  any  further  —  for  the  great 
lump  of  pride  in  your  throat,  the  thick  mist  of  tears  in 
your  eyes.  A  sob  escaped  the  boy.  He  looked  over  at 
Maw  and  saw  the  miraculous.  Maw  was  awake  at  last 
and  crying  —  a  new-fledged  pulsating  Maw  emerged  from 
the  brown  chrysalis  of  her  sorrows. 

"  Oh,  Maw  !  .  .  .  Our  Nat !  ...  All  that  —  that  — 
funeral !  .  .  .  Some  funeral,  Maw !  "     The  boy  choked. 

"  My  Nat!  "  Maw  was  saying.  "  Buried  like  a  king! 
.  .  .  Like  a  King  o'  France !  "  She  clasped  her  hands 
tightly. 

It  was  like  some  beautiful  fantasy.  A  Haynes  —  the 
despised  and  rejected  of  earth  —  borne  to  his  last  home 
with  such  pomp  and  ceremony ! 

"  There  never  was  nothin'  like  it  heard  of  round  here, 
Maw.  ...  If  folks  could  only  know — " 

She  lifted  her  head  as  at  a  challenge. 

"  Why,  they're  goin'  to  know,  Luke  —  for  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  'em.  Folks  that  have  talked  behind  Nat's  back  — 
folks  that  have  pitied  us  —  when  they  .see  this  —  like  a 
King  o'  France!  "  she  repeated  softly.  '*  I'm  goin'  down 
to  town  to-day,  Luke." 


V 

It  was  dusk  when  Maw  came  back ;  dusk  of  a  clear 
day,  with  a  rosy  sunset  off  behind  the  hills.  Luke 
opened  the  door  for  her  and  he  saw  that  she  had  brought 
some  of  the  sun  along  in  with  her  —  its  colors  in  her 
worn  face ;  its  peace  in  her  eyes.  She  was  the  same,  yet 
somehow  new.  Even  the  tilt  of  her  crazy  old  bonnet 
could  not  detract  from  a  strange  new  dignity  that  clothed 
her. 

She  did  not  speak  at  once,  going  over  to  warm  her 


436  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

gloveless  hands  at  the  stove,  and  staring  up  at  the  Gram- 
paw  Peel  plate ;  then : 

"  When  it  comes  —  my  Nat's  medal  —  it's  goin'  to  set 
right  up  here,  'stead  o'  this  old  thing  —  an'  the  letters 
and  the  sermons  in  my  shell  box  I  got  on  my  weddin' 
trip.  .  .  .  Lawyer  Ritchie  told  me  to-day  what  it  means, 
the  name  o'  that  medal  —  Cross  o'  War !  It's  a  decora- 
tion fur  soldiers  and  earned  by  bravery." 

She  paused ;  then  broke  out  suddenly : 

"  I  b'en  a  fool,  settin'  here  grievin'.  My  Nat  was  a 
hero,  an'  I  never  knew  it !  ...  A  hero's  folks  hadn't 
ought  to  cry.  It's  a  thing  too  big  for  that.  Come  here, 
you  little  Luke !  Maw  hain't  b'en  real  good  to  you  an' 
Tommy  lately.  You're  gittin'  all  white  an'  peaked.  Too 
much  frettin'  'bout  Nat.  You  an'  me's  got  to  stop  it,  I 
tell  you.     Folks  round  here  ain't  goin'  to  let  us  fret — " 

"  Folks !  Maw !  "  The  words  burst  from  the  boy's 
heart.  "  Did  they  find  out?  .  .  .  You  showed  it  to  'em? 
Uncle  Clem  — " 

Maw  snififed. 

"  Clem !  Oh,  he  was  real  took  aback ;  but  he  don't 
count  in  on  this  —  not  big  enough."  Then  triumph 
hastened  her  story.  "  It's  the  big  ones  that's  mixin'  into 
this,  Lukey.  Seems  like  they'd  heard  somethin'  a  spell 
back  in  one  o'  the  county  papers,  an'  we  didn't  know. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  when  I  first  got  into  town  I  met  Judge 
Geer,  He  had  me  right  into  his  office  in  Masonic  Hall, 
'fore  I  could  git  my  breath  almost  —  had  me  settin'  in 
his  private  room,  an'  sent  his  stenugifer  out  fur  a  cup  o' 
caw  fee  fur  me.  He  had  me  give  him  the  letter  to  read, 
an'  asked  dare  he  make  some  copies.  The  stenugifer 
took  'em  like  lightnin',  right  there. 

"  The  judge  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  coughin'  an'  blowin' 
over  that  letter.  He's  goin'  to  send  some  copies  to  the 
New  York  papers  right  off.  He  took  me  acrost  the  hall 
and  interduced  me  to  Lawyer  Ritchie.  Lawyer  Ritchie, 
he  read  the  letter  too.  '  A  hero !  '  they  called  Nat ;  an' 
me  '  A  hero's  mother ! ' 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER       437 

"  *  We  ain't  goin'  to  forgit  this,  Mis'  Haynes,'  Lawyer 
Ritchie  said.  *  This .  here  whole  town's  proud  o'  your 
Nat.'  .  .  .  My  land !  I  couldn't  sense  it  all !  .  .  .  Me, 
Delia  Haynes,  gettin'  her  hand  wrung,  'count  o'  anything 
Nat'd  b'en  doin',  by  the  big  bugs  round  town !  Judge 
Geer,  he  fetched  'em  all  out  o'  their  offices  —  Slade,  the 
supervisor,  and  Fuller  Brothers,  and  old  Sumner  Pratt  — 
an'  all !  An'  Ben  Watson  asked  could  he  have  a  copy  to 
put  in  the  Bi-weekly.  It's  goin'  to  take  the  whole  front 
page,  with  an  editor'al  inside.  He  said  the  Rockville 
Center  News'd  most  likely  copy  it  too. 

"  I  was  like  in  a  dream !  .  .  .  All  I'd  aimed  to  do  was 
to  let  some  o'  them  folks  know  that  those  people  acrost 
the  ocean  had  thought  well  of  our  Nat,  an'  here  they  was 
breakin'  their  necks  to  git  in  on  it  too !  .  .  .  Goin'  down 
the  street  they  was  riiore  of  it.  Lu  Shiffer  run  right  out 
o'  the  hardware  store  an'  left  the  nails  he  was  weighin' 
to  shake  hands  with  me ;  and  Jem  Brand  came ;  and 
Lan'lord  Peters  come  out  o'  the  Valley  House  an'  spoke 
to  me.  ...  I  felt  awful  public.  An'  Jim  Beckonridge 
come  out  of  the  Emporium  to  shake  too. 

" '  I  ain't  seen  you  down  in  town  fur  quite  a  spell,'  he 
sez.  '  How  are  you  all  up  there  to  the  farm  ?  .  .  .  Want 
to  say  I'm  real  proud  o'  Nat  —  a  boy  from  round  here ! ' 
he  sez.  .  .  .  Old  Beckonridge,  that  was  always  wantin' 
to  arrest  Nat  fur  takin'  his  chestnuts  or  foolin'  down  in 
the  store! 

"  I  just  let  'em  drift —  seein'  they  had  it  all  fixed  fur 
me.  All  along  the  street  they  come  an'  spoke  to  me. 
Mame  Parmlee,  that  ain't  b'en  able  to  see  me  fur  three 
years,  left  off  sweepin'  her  porch  an'  come  down  an' 
shook  my  hand,  an'  cried  about  it ;  an'  that  stylish  Mis' 
Willowby,  that's  president  o'  the  Civil  Club,  followed  me 
all  over  the  Square  and  asked  dare  she  read  a  copy  o' 
the  letter  an'  tell  about  Nat  to  the  schoolhouse  next 
Wednesday. 

"  It  seems  Judge  Geer  had  gone  out  an'  spread  it 
broadcast  that  I  was  in  town,  for  they  followed  me  every- 


438  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

where.  Next  thing  I  run  into  Reverend  Keams  and 
Reverend  Higby,  huntin'  me  hard. .  They  both  had  one 
idee. 

" '  We  wanted  to  have  a  memor'al  service  to  the 
churches  'bout  Nat,'  they  sez ;  '  then  it  come  over  us  that 
it  was  the  town's  affair  really.  So,  Mis'  Haynes,'  they 
sez,  '  we  want  you  should  share  this  thing  with  us.  You 
mustn't  be  selfish.  You  gotta  give  us  a  little  part  in  it 
too.     Are  you  willin'  ?  '  " 

"  It  knocked  me  dumb  —  me  givin'  anybody  anything ! 
Well,  to  finish,  they's  to  be  a  big  public  service  in  the 
Town  Hall  on  Friday.  They'll  have  it  all  flags  — 
French  ones,  an'  our'n  too.  An'  the  ministers'll  preach ; 
an'  Judge  Geer'll  tell  Nat's  story  an'  speak  about  him ;  an' 
the  Ladies'  Guild'll  serve  a  big  hot  supper,  because  they'll 
probably  be  hundreds  out ;  an'  they'll  read  the  letters  an' 
have  prayers  for  our  Nat !  "  She  faltered  a  moment. 
"  An'  we'll  be  there  too  —  you  an'  me  an'  Tom  —  settin' 
in  the  seat  o'  honor,  right  up  front!  .  .  ,  It'll  be  the 
greatest  funeral  service  this  town's  ever  seen,  Luke." 

Maw's  face  was  crimson  with  emotion. 

"  An'  Uncle  Clem  an'  Aunt  Mollie  — " 

"  Oh  —  them  !  "  Maw  came  back  to  earth  and  smiled 
tolerantly.  "  They  was  real  sharp  to  be  in  it  too.  Mol- 
lie took  me  into  the  parlor  an'  fetched  a  glass  o'  wine  to 
stren'then  me  up.''  Maw  mused  a  moment;  then  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  patronage:  "I'm  goin'  to  knit  Clem 
some  new  socks  this  winter.  He  says  he  can't  git  none 
like  the  oldtime  wool  ones ;  an'  the  market  floors  are 
cold.  Clem's  done  what  he  could,  an'  I'll  be  real  glad 
to  help  him  out.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  asked  'em  to  come  an'  set 
with  us  at  the  service  —  S'norta  too.  I  allowed  we  could 
manage  to  spare  'em  the  room." 

She  dreamed  again,  launched  on  a  sea  of  glory ;  then 
roused  to  her  final  triumph  : 

"  But  that's  only  part,  Luke.  The  best's  comin'.  Jim 
Beckonridge  wants  you  to  go  down  an'  see  him.  '  That 
lame  boy  o'  yours,'  he  sez,  *  was  in  here  a  spell  ago  with 


MARY  BRECHT  PULVER  439 

some  notion  about  raisin'  bees  an'  buckwheat  together, 
an'  gittin'  a  city  market  fur  buckwheat  honey.  SUpped 
my  mind,'  he  sez,  '  till  I  heard  what  Nat'd  done ;  an'  then 
it  all  come  back.  City  party  this  summer  had  the  same 
notion  an'  was  lookin'  out  for  a  likely  place  to  invest  some 
cash  in.  You  send  that  boy  down  an'  we'll  talk  it  over. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  get  some  backin'.  I  calculate 
I  might  help  him,  myself,'  he  sez,  *  I  b'en  thinkin'  of  it 
too.'  .  .  .  Don't  seem  like  it  could  hardly  be  true." 

"  Oh,  Maw ! "  Luke's  pulses  were  leaping  wildly. 
Buckwheat  honey  was  the  dear  dream  of  many  a  long 
hour's  wistful  meditation.  *'  If  we  could  —  I  could 
study  up  about  it  an'  send  away  fur  printed  books.  We 
could  make  some  money  — " 

But  Maw  had  not  yet  finished. 

"  An'  they's  some  about  Tom,  too,  Luke !  That  young 
Doctor  Wells  down  there  —  he's  on'y  b'en  there  a  year 

—  he  come  right  up,  an*  spoke  to  me,  in  the  midst  of 
several.  '  I  want  to  talk  about  your  boy,'  he  sez.  *  I've 
wanted  to  fur  some  time,  but  didn't  like  to  make  bold; 
but  now  seem's  as  good  a  time  as  any.'  *  They're  all 
talkin'  of  him,'  I  sez.  '  Well,'  he  sez,  '  I  don't  mean  the 
dead,  but  the  livin'  boy  —  the  one  folks  calls  Big  Tom. 
I've  heard  his  story,  an'  I  got  a  good  look  over  him  down 
here  in  the  store  a  while  ago.  Woman  ' — he  sez  it  jest 
hke  that — '  if  that  big  boy  o'  your'n  had  a  little  opera- 
tion, he'd  be  as  good  as  any.' 

"  I  answered  him  patient,  an'  told  him  what  ailed  Tom 
an'  why  he  couldn't  be  no  different  —  jest  what  old  Doc 
Andrews  told  us  —  that  they  was  a  little  piece  o'  bone 
druv  deep  into  his  skull  that  time  he  fell.  He  spoke  real 
vi'lent  then.  'But  —  my  Lord!  —  woman,'  he  sez, 
'  that's  what  I'm  talkin'  about.     If  we  jack  up  that  bone  ' 

—  trepannin',  he  called  it  too  — '  his  brains'd  git  to  be  Hke 
anybody  else's.'  Told  me  he  wants  fur  us  to  let  him  look 
after  it.  Won't  cost  anything  unless  we  want.  They's 
a  hospital  to  Rockville  would  tend  to  it,  an'  glad  to  — 
when  we  git  ready.  .  .  .  My  poor  Tommy!  .  .  .  Don't 
seem's  if  it  could  be  true." 


440  THE  PATH  OF  GLORY 

Her  ^ace  softened,  and  she  broke  up  suddenly. 
"  I  got  good  boys  all  round,"  she  wept.    "  I  always  said 
it ;  an'  now  folks  know." 

Luke  lay  on  the  old  settle,  thinking.  In  the  air-tight 
stove  the  hickory  fagots  crackled,  with  jeweled  color- 
play.  On  the  other  side  Tom  sat  whittling  silently  — 
Tom,  who  would  presently  whittle  no  more,  but  rise  to  be 
a  man. 

It  was  incredible !  Incredible  that  the  old  place  might 
some  day  shake  off  its  shackles  of  poverty  and  be  or- 
ganized for  a  decent  struggle  with  life!  Incredible  that 
Alaw  —  stepping  briskly  about  getting  the  supper  — 
should  be  singing ! 

Already  the  room  seemed  filled  and  warmed  with  the 
odors  of  prosperity  and  self-respect.  Maw  had  put  a 
red  geranium  on  the  table ;  there  was  the  crispy  fragrance 
of  frying  salt  pork  and  soda  biscuit  in  the  air. 

These  the  Hayneses !  These  people,  with  hope  and 
self-esteem  once  more  in  their  hearts !  These  people, 
with  a  new,  a  unique  place  in  the  community's  respect! 
It  was  all  like  a  beautiful  miracle ;  and,  thinking  of  its 
maker,  Luke  choked  suddenly  and  gulped. 

There  was  a  moist  spot  on  the  old  Mexican  hairless 
right  under  his  eyes;  but  it  had  been  made  by  tears  of 
pride,  not  sorrow.  Maw  was  right !  A  hero's  folks 
hadn't  ought  to  cry.  And  he  wouldn't.  Nat  was  better 
off  than  ever —  safe  and  honored.  He  had  trod  the  path 
of  glory.  A  line  out  of  the  boy's  old  Reader  sprang  to 
his  mind :  "  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 
Oh,  but  it  wasn't  true !  Nat'.s  path  led  to  Hfe  —  to  hope ; 
to  help  for  all  of  them,  for  Nat's  own.  In  his  death,  if 
not  in  his  life,  he  had  rehabilitated  them.  And  Nat  — 
who  loved  them  —  would  look  down  and  call  it  good. 

In  spite  of  himself  the  boy  sobbed,  visioning  his 
brother's  face. 

"  Oh,  Nat !  "  he  whispered.  "  I  knew  you'd  do  it !  I 
always  said  you'd  do  somethin'  big  for  us  all." 


CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN ' 

By  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 

From   The  Pictorial  Review 

HOW  gaily  we  used  to  chant  it  over  Yen  Sin's  scow 
when  I  was  a  boy  on  Urkey  water-front,  and  how 
unfailingly  it  brought  the  minister  charging  down  upon 
us.  I  can  see  him  now,  just  as  he  used  to  burst  upon 
our  vision  from  the  wharf  lane,  face  paper-white,  eyes 
warm  with  a  holy  wrath,  lips  moving  uncontrollably. 
And  I  can  hear  his  voice  trembling  at  our  heels  as  we 
scuttled  of?: 

"  For  shame,  lads !  Christ  died  for  him,  lads !  For 
shame !     Shame !  " 

And  looking  back  I  can  see  him  there  on  the  wharf 
above  the  scow,  hands  hanging,  shoulders  falling  to- 
gether, brooding  over  the  unredeemed. 

Minister  Maiden  had  seen  "  the  field "  in  a  day  of 
his  surging  youth  —  seen  it,  and  no  more.  He  had  seen 
it  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer  by  which  he  had  come 
out,  and  by  which  he  had  now  to  return,  since  his  sem- 
inary bride  had  fallen  sick  on  the  voyage.  He  perceived 
the  teeming  harbor  clogged  with  junks  and  house-boats, 
the  muddy  river,  an  artery  out  of  the  heart  of  darkness, 
the  fantastic,  colored  shore-lines,  the  vast,  dull  drone  of 
heathendom  stirring  in  his  ears,  the  temple  gongs  calling 
blindly  to  the  blind,  the  alluring  and  incomprehensible 
accents  of  the  boatmen's  tongue  which  he  was  to  have 
made  his  own  and  lightened  with  the  fierce  sweet  name 
of  the  Cross  —  and  now  could  not. 

Poor  young  Minister  Maiden,  he  turned  his  face  away. 

1  Copyright,  191 7,  by  The  Pictorial  Review  Company.  Copyright,  1918, 
by  Wilbur  Daniel   Steele. 

441 


442  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

He  gave  up  "  the  field  "  for  the  bride,  and  when  the  bride 
went  out  in  mid-ocean,  he  had  neither  bride  nor  field. 
He  drifted  back  to  New  England,  somehow  or  other,  and 
found  Yen  Sin. 

He  found  another  bride  too;  Minister  Maiden  was 
human.  It  was  a  mercy  of  justice,  folks  said,  when 
Widow  Gibbs  got  a  man  like  Minister  Maiden.  Heaven 
knows  she  had  had  bad  enough  luck  with  Gibbs,  a  sal- 
low devil  of  a  whaler  who  never  did  a  fine  act  in  his  life 
till  he  went  down  with  his  vessel  and  all  hands  in  the 
Arctic  one  year  and  left  Sympathy  Gibbs  sitting  alone  in 
the  Pillar  House  on  Lovett's  Court,  pretty,  plump,  and 
rather  well-to-do  as  Urkey  goes. 

Everybody  in  the  island  was  glad  enough  when  those 
two  undertook  to  mend  each  other's  blasted  life  —  every- 
body but  Mate  Snow.  He  had  been  thinking  of  Sym- 
pathy Gibbs  himself,  they  said;  and  they  said  he  stood 
behind  the  prescription  screen  in  his  drug-store  far  into 
the  night,  after  the  betrothal  was  given  out  in  Center 
Church,  his  eyes  half-closed,  his  thin  lips  bluish  white, 
and  hell-fire  smouldering  out  of  sight  in  him.  And  they 
said  Mate  was  the  kind  that  never  forget.  That  was 
what  made  it  so  queer. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  must  remember  the  time  when 
the  minister  lived  in  the  Pillar  House  with  Sympathy 
Gibbs. 

Back  there  in  the  mists  of  youth  I  seem  to  see  them 
walking  home  together  after  the  Sunday  morning  preach- 
ing, arm  in  arm  and  full  of  a  sedate  joy;  turning  in  be- 
tween the  tubbed  box-trees  at  Lovett's  Court,  loitering 
for  a  moment  to  gaze  out  over  the  smooth  harbor  and 
nod  to  the  stragglers  of  the  congregation  before  they 
entered  the  big  green  door  flanked  by  the  lilac  panes. 

Perhaps  it  was  told  me.  There  can  be  no  question, 
though,  that  I  remember  the  night  when  Minister  Maiden 
came  home  from  the  Infield  Conference,  a  father  of  two 
days*  standing.  Urkey  village  made  a  festival  of  that 
homecoming  to  the  tiny  daughter  he  had  never  seen. 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  443 

and  to  Sympathy  Gibbs,  weak  and  waiting  and  radiant. 
Yes,  I  remember. 

We  were  all  at  the  landing,  making  a  racket.  The 
minister  looked  ill  when  he  came  over  the  packet's  side, 
followed  by  Mate  Snow,  who  had  gone  to  Conference 
with  him  as  lay  delegate  from  Center  Church.  Our  wel- 
come touched  him  in  a  strange  and  shocking  way ;  he 
staggered  and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for 
Mate's  quick  hand.  He  had  not  a  word  to  say  to  us ; 
he  walked  up  the  shore  street  between  the  wondering 
lines  till  he  came  to  the  Pillar  House,  and  there  he  stood 
for  a  moment,  silhouetted  against  the  open  door,  a  droop- 
ing, hunted  figure,  afraid  to  go  in. 

We  saw  his  shadow  later,  moving  uncertainly  across 
the  shades  in  the  upper  chamber  where  Sympathy  Gibbs 
lay  with  her  baby,  his  hand  lifted  once  with  the  fingers 
crooked  in  mysterious  agony.  Some  one  started  a  hymn 
in  the  street  below  and  people  took  it  up,  bawling  desper- 
ately for  comfort  to  their  souls.  Mate  Snow  didn't  sing. 
He  stood  motionless  between  the  box-trees,  staring  up  at 
the  lighted  window  shades,  as  if  waiting.  By-and-by 
Minister  Maiden  came  down  the  steps,  and  moving  away 
beside  him  like  a  drunken  man,  went  to  live  in  the  two 
rooms  over  the  drugstore.  And  that  was  the  beginning 
of  it 

Folks  said  Mate  Snow  was  not  the  kind  to  forget  an 
injury,  and  yet  it  was  Mate  who  stood  behind  the  min- 
ister through  those  first  days  of  shock  and  scandal,  who 
out-faced  the  congregation  with  his  stubborn,  tight  lips, 
and  who  shut  off  the  whisperings  of  the  Dorcas  Guild 
with  the  sentence  which  was  destined  to  become  a  sort  of 
formula  on  his  tongue  through  the  ensuing  years : 

"  You  don't  know  what's  wrong,  and  neither  do  I ;  but 
we  can  all  see  the  man's  a  saint,  can't  we  ?  " 

"  But  the  woman  ?  "  some  still  persisted. 

"  Sympathy  Gibbs  ?  You  ought  to  know  Sympathy 
Gibbs  by  this  time." 


444  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

And  if  there  was  a  faint  curling  at  the  corners  of  his 
lips,  they  were  all  too  dull  to  wonder  at  it.  As  for  me, 
the  boy,  I  took  the  changing  phenomena  of  life  pretty 
well  for  granted,  and  wasted  little  of  my  golden  time 
speculating  about  such  things.  But  as  I  look  back  now 
on  the  blunt  end  of  those  Urkey  days,  I  seem  to  see 
Minister  Maiden  growing  smaller  as  he  comes  nearer,  and 
Mate  Snow  growing  larger  —  Mate  Snow  browbeating 
the  congregation  with  a  more  and  more  menacing  right- 
eousness —  Minister  Maiden,  in  his  protecting  shadow, 
leaner,  grayer,  his  eyes  burning  with  an  ever  fiercer  zeal, 
escaping  Center  Church  and  slipping  away  to  redeem 
the  Chinaman. 

"  There  is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner,"  was 
his  inspiration,  his  justification,  and,  I  suspect,  his  blessed 
opiate. 

But  it  must  have  been  hard  on  Yen  Sin.  I  remember 
him  now,  a  steam-blurred  silhouette,  earlier  than  the 
earliest,  later  than  the  latest,  swaying  over  his  tubs  and 
sad-irons  in  the  shanty  on  the  stranded  scow  by  Pickett's 
wharf,  dreaming  perhaps  of  the  populous  rivers  of  his 
birth,  or  of  the  rats  he  ate,  or  of  the  opium  he  smoked 
at  dead  of  night,  or  of  those  weird,  heathen  idols  before 
which  he  bowed  down  his  shining  head  —  familiar  and 
inscrutable  alien. 

An  evening  comes  back  to  me  when  I  sat  in  Yen  Sin's 
shop  and  waited  for  my  first  "  stand  up  "  collar  to  be 
ironed,  listening  with  a  kind  of  awe  to  the  tide  making 
up  the  flats,  muffled  and  unfamiliar,  and  inhaling  the 
perfume  compounded  of  steam,  soap,  hot  linen,  rats, 
opium,  tea,  idols  and  what-not  peculiar  to  Yen  Sin's  shop 
and  to  a  thousand  lone  shops  in  a  thousand  lone  villages 
scattered  across  the  mainland.  When  the  precious  collar 
was  at  last  in  my  hands,  still  limp  and  hot  from  its 
ordeal.  Yen  Sin  hung  over  me  in  the  yellow  nimbus  of 
the  lamp,  smiling  at  my  wonder.  I  stared  with  a  grow- 
ing distrust  at  the  flock  of  tiny  bird-scratches  inked  on 
the  band. 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  445 

"What,"  I  demanded  suspiciously,  "is  that?"    ' 

"  Lat's  Mista  You,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  and  sum- 
moning another  hundred  of  wrinkles  to  his  damp, 
polished  face. 

"  That  ain't  my  name.  You  don't  know  my  name,"  I 
accused  him. 

"  Mista  Yen  Sin  gottee  name,  allee  light." 

The  thing  fascinated  me,  like  a  serpent. 

"  Whose  name  is  that,  then  ?  "  I  demanded,  pointing 
to  a  collar  on  the  counter  between  us.  The  band  was 
half -covered  with  the  cryptic  characters,  done  finely  and 
as  if  with  the  loving  hand  of  an  artist. 

Yen  Sin  held  it  up  before  his  eyes  in  the  full  glow  of 
the  lamp.  His  face  seemed  incredibly  old ;  not  senile, 
like  our  white-beards  mumbling  on  the  wharves,  but  as  if 
it  had  been  a  long,  long  time  in  the  making  and  was  still 
young.  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  me,  he  was  so  en- 
grossed in  his  handiwork. 

"  Lat  colla?"  he  mused  by-and-by.  "Lat's  Mista 
Minista,  boy." 

"  Mister  Minister  Maiden?" 

And  there  both  of  us  stared  a  little,  for  there  was  a 
voice  at  the  door. 

"Yes?    Yes?    What  is  it?" 

Minister  Maiden  stood  with  his  head  and  shoulders 
bent,  wary  of  the  low  door-frame,  and  his  eyes  blinking 
in  the  new  light.  I  am  sure  he  did  not  see  me  on  the 
bench ;  he  was  looking  at  Yen  Sin. 

"  How  is  it  with  you  to-night,  my  brother?" 

The  Chinaman  straightened  up  and  faced  him,  grave, 
watchful. 

"  Fine,"  he  said.  "  Mista  Yen  Sin  fine.  Mista  Min- 
ista fine,  yes  ? " 

He  bowed  and  motioned  his  visitor  to  a  rocker,  up- 
holstered with  a  worn  piece  of  Axminster  and  a  bit  of 
yellow  silk  with  half  a  dragon  on  it.  The  ceremony,  one 
could  see,  was  not  new.  Vanishing  into  the  further 
mysteries  of  the  rear,  he  brought  out  a  bowl  of  tea, 


446  CHING,  CHING.  CHINAMAN 

steaming,  a  small  dish  of  heathenish  things,  nuts  per- 
haps, or  preserves,  deposited  the  offering  on  the  min- 
ister's pointed  knees,  and  retired  behind  the  counter  to 
watch  and  wait. 

An  amazing  change  came  over  the  minister.  Accus- 
tomed to  seeing  him  gentle,  shrinking,  illusively  non-re- 
sisting, I  scarcely  knew  this  white  flame  of  a  man,  burn- 
ing over  the  tea-bowl! 

"  You  are  kind  to  me,"  he  cried,  "  and  yet  your  heart 
is  not  touched.  I  would  give  up  my  life  gladly,  brother, 
if  I  could  only  go  up  to  the  Throne  and  say  to  Jesus,  '  Be- 
hold, Lord,  Thy  son,  Yen  Sin,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the 
Cross.  Thou  gavest  me  the  power,  Lord,  and  the  glory 
is  thine  ! '     If  I  could  say  that,  brother,  I  —  I  — " 

His  voice  trailed  off,  though  his  lips  continued  to  move 
uncertainly.  His  face  was  transfigured,  his  eyes  filmed 
with  dreams.  He  was  looking  beyond  Yen  Sin  now, 
and  on  the  lost  yellow  millions.  The  tea,  untasted, 
smoked  upward  into  his  face,  an  insidious,  narcotic  cloud. 
I  can  think  of  him  now  as  he  sat  there,  wresting  out  of 
his  easeless  years  one  moment  of  those  seminary  dreams ; 
the  color  of  far-away,  the  sweet  shock  of  the  alien  and 
the  bizarre,  the  enormous  odds,  the  Game.  The  walls  of 
Yen  Sin's  shop  were  the  margins  of  the  world,  and  for  a 
moment  the  missionary  lived. 

"  He  would  soften  your  heart,"  he  murmured.  "  In 
a  wondrous  way.  ?Iave  you  never  thought.  Yen  Sin, 
'  I  would  like  to  be  a  good  man  '  ? " 

The  other  spread  his  right  hand  across  his  breast. 

"  Mista  Yen  Sin  velly  humble  dog.  Mista  Yen  Sin 
no  good.  Mista  Yen  Sin's  head  on  le  glound.  Mista 
Yen  Sin  velly  good  man.     Washy  colla  fine." 

It  was  evidently  an  old  point,  an  established  score  for 
the  heathen. 

"  Yes,  I  must  say,  you  do  do  your  work.  I've  brought 
you  that  collar  for  five  years  now,  and  it  still  seems 
new."  The  minister's  face  fell  a  little.  Yen  Sin  con- 
tinued grave  and  alert. 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  447 

"  "'  And  Mista  Matee  Snow,  yes?  His  coUa  allee  same 
like  new,  yes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  1  must  say !  "  The  other  shook  himself.  "  But 
it's  not  that,  brother.  We're  all  of  us  wicked,  Yen  Sin, 
and  unless  we — " 

"Mista  Minista  wickee?" 

For  a  moment  the  minister's  eyes  seemed  fascinated 
by  the  Chinaman's ;  pain  whitened  his  face. 

"  All  of  us,"  he  murmured  uncertainly,  "  are  weak. 
The  best  among  us  sins  in  a  day  enough  to  blacken 
eternity.  And  unless  we  believe,  and  have  faith  in  the 
Divine  Mercy  of  the  Father,  and  confess  —  confession 
— "  His  voice  grew  stronger  and  into  it  crept  the  rapt 
note  of  one  whose  auditor  is  within.  "  Confession !  A 
sin  confessed  is  no  longer  a  sin.  The  word  spoken  out 
of  the  broken  and  contrite  heart  makes  all  things  right. 
If  one  but  had  faith  in  that !     If  —  if  one  had  Faith !  " 

The  life  went  out  of  his  voice,  the  fire  died  in  his  eyes, 
his  fingers  drooped  on  the  tea-bowl.  The  Chinaman's 
clock  was  striking  the  half  after  seven.  He  stared  at 
the  floor,  haggard  with  guilt. 

"  Dear  me,  I'm  late  for  prayer-meeting  again.  Snow 
will  be  looking  for  me." 

I  slipped  out  beliind  him,  glad  enough  of  Urkey's  raw 
air  after  that  close  chamber  of  mysteries.  I  avoided  the 
wharf-lane,  however,  more  than  a  little  scared  by  this 
sudden  new  aspect  of  the  Minister,  and  got  myself  out 
to  the  shore  street  by  Miah  White's  yard  and  the  grocery 
porch,  and  there  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  Mate 
Snow.  That  frightened  me  still  more,  for  the  light  from 
Henny's  Notions'  window  was  shining  oddly  in  his 
eyes. 

"  You're  lookin'  for  the  minister,"  I  stammered,  duck- 
ing my  head. 

He  stopped  and  stared  down  at  me,  tapping  a  sole  on 
the  cobbles. 

"What's  this?     Whnt'sthis'" 

"  He  —  he  says  you'd  be  lookin'  for  'im,  an'  I  seen  'im 


448  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

to  the  Chinaman's  an'  he's  comin'  right  there,  honest  he 
is,  Mr.  Snow." 

"  Oh !     So  ?     I'd  be  looking  for  him,  would  I  ?  " 

"  Y  —  y  —  yessir." 

I  sank  down  on  the  grocery  steps  and  studied  my  toes. 

"  He  was  there,  though !  "  I  protested  in  desperation, 
when  we  had  been  waiting  in  vain  for  a  long  quarter- 
hour.  The  dark  monitor  lifted  his  chin  from  his  collar 
and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  It's  hard,"  I  heard  him  sigh,  as  he  turned  away  down 
Lovett's  Court,  where  Center  Church  blossomed  with  its 
prayer-meeting  lamps.  Shadows  of  the  uneasy  flock 
moved  across  the  windows ;  Emsy  Nickerson,  in  his  trus- 
tee's black,  peered  out  of  the  door  into  the  dubious  night, 
and  beyond  him  in  the  bright  vestry  Aunt  Nickerson 
made  a  little  spot  of  color,  agitated,  nursing  formless 
despairs,  an  artist  in  vague  dreads. 

I  was  near  enough,  at  the  church  steps,  to  hear  what 
Mate  told  them. 

"  I'll  lead  to-night.  He's  gone  out  in  the  back-country 
to  pray  alone." 

Aunt  Nickerson  wept  quietly,  peeping  from  the  cor- 
ners of  her  eyes.  Reverent  awe  struggled  with  an  old  re- 
bellion in  Emsy's  face,  and  in  others  as  they  came  crowd- 
ing.    The  trustee  broke  out  bitterly : 

"  Miah  White's  took  to  the  bottle  again,  along  o'  him. 
If  only  he'd  do  his  prayin'  at  Miah's  house  a  spell,  'stead 
o'  the  back-country  — " 

"  There  was  a  back-country  in  Judea,"  Mate  cried 
him  down.  "  And  some  one  prayed  there,  not  one  night, 
but  forty  nights  and  days !  " 

What  a  far  cry  it  was  from  the  thwarted  lover  behind 
the  prescription  screen,  fanning  the  flames  of  hell-fire 
through  the  night,  to  the  Seer  thundering  in  the  vestry 
—  had  there  been  any  there  with  heads  enough  to  won- 
der at  it. 

It  happened  from  time  to  time,  this  mysterious  retreat 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  449 

into  the  moors,  more  frequently  as  the  Infield  Conference 
drew  on  and  the  hollows  deepened  in  the  minister's 
cheeks  and  his  eyes  shone  brighter  with  foreboding. 
Nor  was  this  the  first  time  the  back-country  had  been 
mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  the  Wilderness  of 
Judea.  I  can  remember  our  Miss  Beedie,  in  Sunday 
School,  lifting  her  eyes  and  sighing  at  the  first  verse  of 
the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Luke. 

And  to-night,  while  I  crept  off  tingling  through  the 
dark  of  Lovett's  Court,  he  was  in  the  Wilderness  again, 
and  I  had  seen  him  last. 

I  brought  up  by  one  of  the  tubbed  box-trees  and  peered 
in  at  the  Pillar  House  with  a  new  wonder.  I  was  so 
used  to  it  there,  dead  on  the  outside  and  living  on  the 
inside,  that  I  had  never  learned  to  think  of  it  as  a  strange 
thing.  Perhaps  a  dozen  times  I  had  seen  little  Hope 
Gibbs  (they  still  said  "  Gibbs  ")  playing  quietly  among 
the  lilacs  in  the  back  yard.  It  was  always  at  dusk  when 
the  shadows  were  long  there,  and  she  a  shadow  among 
them,  so  unobtrusive  and  far  away.  As  for  her  mother, 
no  one  ever  saw  Sympathy  Gibbs. 

Crouching  by  the  box-tree,  I  found  myself  wondering 
what  they  were  doing  in  there.  Sympathy  Gibbs  and  the 
little  girl ;  whether  they  were  sleeping,  or  whether  they 
were  sitting  in  the  dark,  thinking,  or  whispering  about 
the  husband  and  father  who  was  neither  husband  nor 
father,  or  whether,  in  some  remote  chamber,  there  might 
not  be  a  lamp  or  a  candle  burning. 

The  dead  hush  of  the  place  oppressed  me.  I  turned 
my  head  to  look  back  at  the  comfortable,  bumbling  de- 
votion of  Center  Church,  and  this  is  what  I  saw  there. 

The  door  was  still  open,  a  blank,  bright  rectangle  giv- 
ing into  the  deserted  vestry,  and  it  was  against  this  mat 
of  light  that  I  spied  Minister  Maiden's  head  and 
shoulders  thrust  furtively,  as  he  peeped  in  and  seemed  to 
barken  to  the  muffled  unison  of  the  prayer. 

You  may  imagine  me  startled  enough  at  that,  but  what 


450  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

of-  my  emotion  when,  having  peeped  and  listened  and  re- 
assured himself  for  a  dozen  seconds,  Minister  Maiden 
turned  and  came  softly  down  the  Court  toward  the  gate 
and  the  box-trees  and  me,  a  furtive  silhouette  against  the 
door-light,  his  face  turned  back  over  one  shoulder. 

I  couldn't  bolt ;  he  was  too  close  for  that.  The  wonder 
was  that  he  failed  to  see  me,  for  he  stopped  within  two 
yards  of  where  I  cowered  in  the  shadow  and  stood  for  a 
long  time  gazing  in  between  the  trees  at  the  pillared 
porch,  and  I  could  hear  his  breathing,  uneven  and  la- 
borious, as  though  he  had  been  running  or  fighting. 
Once  I  thought  he  struck  out  at  something  with  a  vicious 
fist.  Then  his  trouble  was  gone,  between  two  winks,  and 
he  was  gone  too,  up  the  walk  and  up  the  steps,  without 
any  to-do  about  it.  I  don't  know  whether  he  tapped  on 
the  door  or  not.  It  was  open  directly.  I  caught  a  pass- 
ing glimpse  of  Sympathy  Gibbs  in  the  black  aperture ;  the 
door  closed  on  them  both,  and  the  Pillar  House  was  dead 
again. 

Now  this  was  an  odd  way  for  Minister  Maiden  to 
fast  and  pray  in  the  Wilderness  —  odd  enough,  one 
would  say,  to  keep  me  waiting  there  a  while  to  see  what 
would  come  of  it  all.  But  it  didn't.  I  had  had  enough 
of  mysteries  for  one  Summer's  night,  or  at  any  rate  I 
had  enough  by  the  time  I  got  my  short  legs,  full  tilt,  into 
the  shore  street.  For  I  had  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse,  on 
the  way,  of  a  watcher  in  the  shadow  behind  the  other 
box-tree  —  Yen  Sin,  the  heathen,  with  a  surprised  eye- 
ball slanting  at  me  over  one  shoulder. 

Among  the  most  impressive  of  the  phenomena  of  life, 
as  noted  in  my  thirteenth  year,  is  the  amazing  way  in 
which  a  community  can  change  while,  one  is  away  from 
it  a  month.  Urkey  village  at  the  beginning  of  my  'teens 
seemed  to  me  much  the  same  Urkey  village  upon  which 
I  had  first  opened  my  eyes.  And  then  I  went  to  make 
a  visit  with  my  uncle  Orville  Means  in  Gillyport,  just 
across  the  Sound,  and  when  I  came  back  on  the  packet 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  451 

I  could  assure  myself  with  all  the  somber  satisfaction  of 
the  returning  exile  that  I  would  scarcely  have  known  the 
old  place. 

Gramma  Pilot's  cow  had  been  poisoned.  There  had 
been  a  fire  in  the  Selectmen's  room  at  Town  Hall.  Am- 
ber Matheson  had  left  Mrs.  Wharf's  Millinery  and  set 
up  for  herself,  opposite  the  Eastern  School.  And  Mate 
Snow,  all  of  a  sudden,  had  bought  the  old  Pons  house, 
on  the  hill  hanging  high  over  the  town,  and  gone  to  live 
there.  With  a  leap,  and  as  it  were  behind  my  back,  he 
sat  there  dominating  the  village  and  the  harbor  and  the 
island  —  our  Great  Man. 

He  took  Minister  Maiden  with  him,  naturally,  out  of 
the  two  rooms  over  the  store,  into  one  room  in  the  third 
story  of  the  house  on  the  hill  —  where  Sympathy  Gibbs 
could  see  him  if  she  chose  to  look  that  way,  as  frankly 
and  ignominiously  a  dependent  as  any  baron's  chaplain  in 
the  Golden  Days. 

"  She'd  have  done  better  with  Mate,  after  all,"  folks 
began  to  say. 

But  of  all  the  changes  in  the  village,  the  most  mo- 
mentous to  me  was  the  change  in  Yen  Sin.  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  have  been  I,  out  of  all  the  Urkey  youth, 
who  went  to  the  Chinaman's ;  perhaps  it  was  the  spiritual 
itch  left  from  that  first  adventure  on  the  scow.  At  any 
rate,  I  had  fallen  into  a  habit  of  dropping  in  at  the  cabin, 
and  not  always  with  a  collar  to  do. 

I  had  succeeded  in  worming  out  of  him  the  meaning 
of  that  first  set  of  bird -scratches  on  my  collar-band  — 
"The  boy  who  throws  clam-shells" — and  of  a  second 
and  more  elaborate  mriting  — "  The  boy  who  is  coura- 
geous in  the  face  of  all  the  water  of  the  ocean,  yet  trem- 
bles before  so  much  of  it  as  may  be  poured  in  a  wash- 
basin." There  came  a  third  inscription  in  time,  but  of 
that  he  would  not  tell  me,  nor  of  Mate  Snow's,  nor  the 
minister's.  It  was  a  queer  library  he  had,  those  fine- 
written  collars  of  Urkey  village. 

He  had  been  growing  feebler  so  long  and  so  gradually 


452  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

that  I  had  made  nothing  of  it.  Once,  I  remember,  it 
struck  me  queer  that  he  wasn't  working  so  hard  as  he 
had  used  to.  Still  earliest  of  all  and  latest  of  all,  he 
would  sometimes  leave  his  iron  cooling  on  the  board 
now  and  stand  for  minutes  of  the  precious  day,  dream- 
ing out  of  the  harbor  window.  When  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing, the  shaft  through  the  window  bathed  his  head  and 
his  lean  neck  with  a  quality  almost  barbaric,  and  for  a 
moment  in  the  gloom  made  by  the  bright  pencil,  the  new, 
raw  things  of  Urkey  faded  out,  leaving  him  alone  in  his 
ancient  and  ordered  civilization,  a  little  wistful,  I  think, 
and  perhaps  a  little  frightened,  as  a  child  waking  from  a 
long,  dreaming  sleep,  to  find  his  mother  gone. 

He  had  begun  to  talk  about  China,  too,  and  the  river 
where  he  was  born.  And  I  made  nothing  of  it,  it  came 
on  so  gradually,  day  by  day.  Then  I  went  away, 
as  I  have  said,  and  came  back  again.  I  dropped  in 
at  the  scow  the  second  day  after  the  packet  brought  me 
home. 

"  Hello,  there ! "  I  cried,  peeping  over  the  counter. 
"  I  got  a  collar  for  you  to  —  to  — "  I  began  to  stumble. 
"  Mr.  Yen  Sin,  dear  me,  what's  the  matter  of  you?  " 

"  Mista  Yen  Sin  fine,"  he  said  in  a  strengthless  voice, 
smiling  and  nodding  from  the  couch  where  he  lay,  half 
propped  up  by  a  gorgeous,  faded  cushion.  "  Mista  Yen 
Sin  go  back  China  way  pletty  quick  now,  yes." 

"Honest?" 

He  made  no  further  answer,  but  took  up  the  collar  I 
had  brought. 

"  You  been  gone  Gillypo't,  yes?  You  take  colla  China 
boy,  yes  ?  " 

"  Yessir !  " 

"He  pletty  nice  man,  Sam  Low,  yes?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  him,  then  ?  Oh,  he's  all  right,  Yen 
Sin." 

It  was  growing  dark  outside,  and  colder,  with  a  rising 
wind  from  landward  to  seaward  against  the  tide.  A 
sense  of  something  odd  and  wrong  came  over  me ;  it  was 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  453 

a  moment  before  I  could  make  it  out.  The  fire  was  dead 
in  the  stove  for  the  first  time  in  memory  and  the  Vestal 
irons  were  cold.  Yen  Sin  asked  me  to  light  the  lamp. 
In  the  waxing  yellow  glow  he  turned  his  eyes  to  mine, 
and  mine  were  big. 

"  You  know  Mista  God?"  he  questioned. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered  soberly.     "  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Mista  God  allee  same  like  Mista  Yen  Sin,  yes?" 

I  felt  myself  paling  at  his  blasphemy,  and  thought  of 
lightning. 

"  Mista  God,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  speculative  tone, 
"  Mista  God  know  allee  bad  things,  allee  same  like  Mista 
Yen  Sin,  yes? " 

''  Where  is  the  minister?  "  I  demanded  in  desperation. 

"Mista  Yen  Sin  likee  see  Mista  Minista."  When  he 
added,  with  a  transparent  hand  fluttering  over  his  heart : 
"  Like  see  pletty  quick  now,"  I  seemed  to  fathom  for 
the  first  time  what  was  happening  to  him. 

"  Wait,"  I  cried,  too  full  of  awe  to  know  what  I  said. 
"  Wait,  wait,  Yen  Sin.     I'll  fetch  'im." 

It  was  dark  outside,  the  sky  overcast,  and  the  wind 
beginning  to  moan  a  high  note  across  the  roofs  as  it 
swept  in  from  the  moors  and  out  again  over  the  graying 
waters.  In  the  shore  street  my  eyes  chanced  upon  the 
light  of  Center  Church,  and  I  remembered  that  it  was 
meeting-night. 

There  was  only  a  handful  of  worshippers  that  evening, 
but  a  thousand  could  have  had  no  more  eyes  it  seemed 
to  me  as  I  tiptoed  down  the  aisle  with  the  scandalized 
pad-pad  of  Emsy  Nickerson's  pursuing  soles  behind  my 
back.  Confusion  seized  me;  I  started  to  run,  and  had 
come  almost  up  to  Mister  Maiden  before  I  had  wit 
enough  to  discover  that  it  wasn't  Minister  Maiden  at  all, 
but  Mate  Snow  in  the  pulpit,  standing  with  an  open 
hymn-book  in  one  hand  and  staring  down  at  me  with 
grim,  inquiring  eyes.  After  a  time  I  managed  to  stam- 
mer: 


454  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

"  The  Chinaman,  you  know  —  he's  goin'  to  die  —  the 
minister  — " 

Then  I  fled,  dodging  Emsy's  legs.  Confused  voices 
followed  me;  Aunt  Nickerson's  full  of  a  nameless  hor- 
ror ;  Mate  Snow's,  thundering :  "  Brother  Hemans,  you 
will  please  continue  the  meeting.  I  will  go  and  see  what 
I  can  do.     But  your  prayers  are  needed  here." 

Poor  Minister  Maiden !  His  hour  had  struck  —  the 
hour  so  long  awaited  —  and  now  it  was  Mate  Snow  who 
should  go  to  answer  it.  Perhaps  the  night  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  and  the  melancholy  disaster  of  the 
wind.  Perhaps  it  was  the  look  of  Mate  Snow's  back  as 
he  passed  me,  panting  on  the  steps,  his  head  bowed  with 
his  solemn  and  triumphant  stewardship.  But  all  of  a 
sudden  I  hated  him,  this  righteous  man.  He  had  so 
many  things,  and  Minister  Maiden  had  nothing  —  noth- 
ing but  the  Chinaman's  soul  —  and  he  was  going  to  try 
and  get  that  too. 

I  had  to  find  Minister  Maiden,  and  right  away.  But 
where  -d'as  he,  and  on  prayer-meeting  night  too?  My 
mind  skipped  back.   'The  "Wilderness." 

I  was  already  ducking  along  the  Court  to  reconnoiter 
the  Pillar  House,  black  and  silent  beyond  the  box-trees. 
And  then  I  put  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  my  ardor 
dimmed  by  the  look  of  that  vacant,  staring  face.  What 
was  I,  a  boy  of  thirteen,  against  that  house?  I  could 
knock  at  the  door,  to  be  sure,  as  the  minister  had  done  that 
other  night.  Yes ;  but  when  I  stood,  soft-footed,  on  the 
porch,  the  thought  that  Sympathy  Gibbs  might  open  it 
suddenly  and  find  me  there  sent  the  hands  back  again 
into  the  sanctuary  of  my  pockets.  What  did  I  know  of 
her?  What  did  any  one  know  of  her?  To  be  con- 
fronted by  her,  suddenly,  in  the  dark  behind  a  green 
door  —  I  tiptoed  down  the  steps. 

If  only  there  were  a  cranny  of  light  somewhere  in  the 
dead  place!  I  began  to  prowl  around  the  yard,  feeling 
adventurous  enough,  you  may  believe,  for  no  boy  had 
ever  scouted  that  bit  of  Urkey  land  before.     And  I  did 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  455 

find  a  light,  beneath  a  drawn  shade  in  the  rear.  Ap- 
proaching as  stealthily  as  a  red  Indian,  I  put  one  large, 
round  eye  to  the  aperture. 

If  I  had  expected  a  melodramatic  tableau,  I  was  dis- 
appointed. I  had  always  figured  the  inside  of  the  Pillar 
House  as  full  of  treasures,  for  they  told  tales  of  the  old 
whaler's  wealth.  My  prying  eyes  found  it  bare,  like  a 
deserted  house  gutted  by  seasons  of  tramps.  A  little  fire 
of  twigs  and  a  broken  butter-box  on  the  hearth  made  a 
pathetic  shift  at  domestic  cheer.  Minister  Maiden  sat  at 
one  side  of  it,  his  back  to  me,  his  face  half -buried  in  his 
hands.  Little  Hope  Gibbs  played  quietly  on  the  floor, 
building  pig-pens  with  a  box  of  matches,  a  sober,  fire- 
lined  shade.  Sympathy  Gibbs  was  not  in  the  picture, 
but  I  heard  her  voice  after  a  moment,  coming  out  from 
an  invisible  corner. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  this  time,  Will  ?  " 

"  Want  ?  "  There  was  .  an  anguished  protest  in  the 
man's  cry. 

"  Need,  then."    The  voice  was  softer. 

The  minister's  face  dropped  back  in  his  hands,  and 
after  a  moment  the  words  came  out  between  his  tight 
fingers,  hardly  to  be  heard. 

"  Five  hundred  dollars,  Sympathy." 

I  thought  there  was  a  gasp  from  the  comer,  sup- 
pressed. I  caught  the  sound  of  a  drawer  pulled  open  and 
the  vague  rustling  of  skirts  as  the  woman  moved  about. 
Her  voice  was  as  even  as  death  itself. 

"  Here  it  is,  Will.  It  brings  us  to  the  end,  Will.  God 
knows  where  it  will  come  from  next  time." 

"  It  —  it  —  you  mean  — "  An  indefinable  horror  ran 
through  the  minister's  voice,  and  I  could  see  the  cords 
shining  on  the  hands  which  gripped  the  chair-arms. 
"  Next  time  —  next  year  — "  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
child  at  his  feet.  "  God  knows  where  it  will  come  from. 
Perhaps  —  before  another  time  —  something  will  happen. 
Dear  little  Hope  —  little  girl !  " 

The  child's  eyes  turned  with  a  preoccupied  wonder 


456  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

as  the  man's  hand  touched  her  hair;  then  went  back  to 
the  alluring  pattern  of  the  matches. 

Sympathy  Gibbs  spoke  once  more. 

"  I've  found  out  who  holds  the  mortgage,  Will.  Mr. 
Dow  told  me." 

His  hand  slid  from  Hope's  hair  and  hung  in  the  air. 
During  the  momentary  hush  his  head,  half-turned, 
seemed  to  wait  in  a  praying  suspense. 

"  It's  Mate  Snow,"  the  voice  went  on.  The  man  cov- 
ered his  face. 

"  Thank  God ! "  he  said.  I  thought  he  shivered. 
"Then  it's  all  —  all  right,"  he  sighed  after  a  moment. 
"  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  somebody  who  would  —  who 
might  make  trouble."  He  took  out  a  handkerchief  and 
touched  his  forehead  with  it.     "  Thank  —  God  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  thank  God  ?  "  A  weariness,  like  anger, 
touched  her  words. 

"Why?  Why  do  I  thank  God?"  He  faced  her, 
wondering.  "  Because  he  has  given  me  a  strong  man  to 
be  my  friend  and  stand  behind  me.  Because  Mate  Snow, 
who  might  have  hated  me,  has — " 

"  Has  sucked  the  life  out  of  you !  "  It  came  out  of  the 
corner  like  a  blade.  *'  Yes,  yes,  he  has  sucked  the  life 
out  of  you  in  his  hate,  and  thrown  the  dry  shell  of  you 
to  me;  and  that  makes  him  feel  good  on  his  hill  there. 
No,  no,  no;  I'm  going  to  say  it  now.  Has  he  ever  tried 
to  find  out  what  was  wrong  with  us?  No.  He  didn't 
need  to.  Why?  Because  no  matter  what  it  was,  we 
were  given  over  into  his  hands,  body  and  soul.  And  now 
it's  Mate  Snow  who  is  the  big  man  of  this  island,  and 
it's  the  minister  that  eats  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  his 
table,  and  folks  pity  you  and  honor  him  because  he's  so 
good  to  you,  and — " 

And  this  was  Urkey  village,  and  night,  and  Yen  Sin 
was  dying. 

"And  he's  down  to  the  Chinaman's  now!"  I 
screamed,  walking  out  of  my  dream.     "  An'  the  China- 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  457 

man's  dyin'  an'  wants  the  minister,  an'  Mate  Snoyv  he 
got  there  first." 

The  Hght  went  out  in  the  room  ;  I  heard  a  chair  knocked 
over,  and  then  Minister  Maiden's  voice :  "  God  forgive 
me !     God  forgive  me !  " 

I  ran,  sprawling  headlong  through  the  shrubs. 

Out  in  the  dark  of  Lovett's  Court  I  found  people  all 
about  me,  the  congregation,  let  out,  hobbling  and  skipping 
and  jostling  shoreward,  a  curious  rout.  Others  were 
there,  not  of  the  church;  Kibby  Baker,  the  atheist,  who 
had  heard  the  news  through  the  church  window  where  he 
peeped  at  the  worshipers :  Miah  White's  brother,  the 
ship-calker,  summoned  by  his  sister;  a  score  of  others, 
herding  down  the  dark  wind.  At  the  shore  street,  folks 
were  coming  from  the  Westward.  It  was  strange  to  see 
them  all  and  to  think  it  was  only  a  heathen  dying. 

Or,  perhaps,  it  wasn't  so  strange,  when  one  remem- 
bered Minister  Maiden  coming  down  the  years  with  that 
light  in  his  eyes,  building  his  slow  edifice,  like  one  in 
Israel  prophesying  the  coming  of  the  Messiah. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  picture  I  saw  that  night  from 
the  deck  of  the  Chinaman's  scow.  The  water  here  in 
the  lee  was  as  smooth  as  black  glass,  save  for  the  little 
ground-swell  that  rocked  the  outer  end  of  the  craft. 
The  tide  was  rising;  the  grounded  end  would  soon  be 
swimming.  There  were  others  on  the  deck  with  me,  and 
more  on  the  dock  overhead,  their  faces  picked  out  against 
the  sky  by  the  faint  irradiations  from  the  lighted  shanty 
beneath.  And  over  and  behind  it  all  ran  the  tumult  of 
the  elements ;  behind  it  the  sea,  where  it  picked  up  on 
the  Bight  out  there  beyond  our  eyes ;  above  it  the  wind, 
scouring  the  channels  of  the  crowded  roofs  and  flinging 
out  to  meet  the  waters,  like  a  ravening  and  disastrous 
bride. 

Mate  Snow  stood  by  the  counter  in  the  little  cabin,  his 
close-cropped  head  almost  to  the  beams,  his  voice, 
dry,  austere,  summoning  the  Chinaman  to  repentance. 


458  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

"  Verily,  if  a  man  be  not  born  again,  he  shall  not  enter 
into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,"  His  eyes  skipped  to  the 
door. 

"  And  to  be  born  again,"  he  went  on  with  a  hint  of 
haste,  "  you  must  confess,  Yen  Sin,  and  have  faith. 
That  is  enough.  The  outer  and  inner  manifestations  — 
confession  and  faith." 

"Me,  Mista  Yen  Sin  —  confessee?" 

A  curious  and  shocking  change  had  come  over  the 
Chinaman  in  the  little  time  I  had  been  away.  He  lay 
quite  motionless  on  his  couch,  with  a  bit  of  silken  tap- 
estry behind  his  head,  like  a  heathen  halo  protecting  him 
at  last.  He  was  more  alive  than  he  had  been,  pre- 
cisely because  the  life  had  gone  out  of  him,  and  he  was 
no  longer  bothered  with  it.  His  face  was  a  mask,  trans- 
parent and  curiously  luminous,  and  there  for  the  first 
time  I  saw  the  emotion  of  humor,  which  is  another  name 
for  perception. 

His  unclouded  eyes  found  me  by  the  door  and  he 
moved  a  hand  in  a  vague  gesture.  I  went,  walking  stiff- 
legged,  awe  mingling  with  self-importance. 

"  Mista  Boy,  please,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear.  "  The 
collas  on  the  shelf  theah.     Led  paypah  — " 

Wondering,  I  took  them  down  and  piled  them  on  the 
couch  beside  him,  one  after  another,  little  bundles  done 
up  carefully  in  flaring  tissue  with  black  characters  inked 
on  them. 

"  That  one !  "  he  whispered,  and  I  undid  the  one  under 
his  finger,  discovering  half  a  dozen  collars,  coiled  with 
their  long  imprisonment. 

"  And  that  one,  and  that  one  — " 

They  covered  his  legs  and  rose  about  his  thin  shoulders, 
those  treasured  soiled  collars  of  his,  gleaming  under  the 
lamp  like  the  funeral-pyre  of  some  fantastic  potentate. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  save  the  faint  crackling 
of  the  paper,  and  after  a  moment  Lem  Pigeon  murmur- 
ing in  amazement  to  his  neighbor,  over  in  a  comer. 

"  Look  a-there,  will  ye  ?     He's  got  my  collar  with  the 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  459 

blood  spot  onto  it  where  the  Lisbon  woman's  husband 
hit  me  that  time  down  to  New  Bedford.  What  ye  make 
o'  that  now  ?  " 

Yen  Sin  lifted  his  eyes  to  Mate  Snow's  hanging  over 
him  in  wonder. 

"  Mista  Matee  Snow  conf essee,  yes  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  shocked  silence  while  our 
great  man  stared  at  Yen  Sin.  He  took  his  weight  from 
the  counter  and  stood  up  straight. 

"  I  confess  my  sins  to  God,"  he  said. 

The  other  moved  a  fluttering  hand  over  his  collars. 
"  Mista  Yen  Sin  allee  same  like  Mista  God,  yes." 

In  the  hush  I  heard  news  of  the  blasphemy  whispering 
from  lip  to  lip,  out  the  door  and  up  the  awe-struck  dock. 
Mate  Snow  lifted  a  hand. 

"  Stop !  "  he  cried.  "  Yen  Sin,  you  are  standing  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  — " 

"Mista  Matee  Snow  wickee  man?  No?  Yes? 
Mista  Matee  Snow  confessee?" 

The  Chinaman  was  making  a  game  of  his  death-bed, 
and  even  the  dullest  caught  the  challenge.  Mate  Snow 
understood.  The  yellow  man  had  asked  him  with  the 
divine  clarity  of  the  last  day  either  to  play  the  game  or 
not  to  play  the  game.  And  Mate  Snow  wanted  some- 
thing enough  to  play. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  "  I  am  weak.  All  flesh  is 
weak."  He  faltered,  and  his  brow  was  corded  with  the 
labor  of  memory.  It  is  hard  for  a  good  man  to  summon 
up  sins  enough  to  make  a  decent  confession;  nearly  al- 
ways they  fall  back  in  the  end  upon  the  same  worn  and 
respectable  category. 

"  I  confess  to  the  sin  of  pride,"  he  pronounced  slowly. 
"  And  to  good  deeds  and  kind  acts  undone ;  to  moments 
of  harshness  and  impatience  — " 

"Mista  Matee  Snow  confessee?"  Yen  Sin  shook  a 
weary  protest  at  the  cheater  wasting  the  precious  mo- 
ments with  words.  Mate  Snow  lifted  his  eyes,  and  I  saw 
his  face  whiten  and  a  pearl  of  sweat  form  on  his  fore- 


46o  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

head.  A  hush  filled  the  close  cave  of  light,  a  waiting 
silence,  oppressive  and  struck  with  a  new  expectancy. 
Little  sounds  on  the  dock  above  became  important  — 
young  Gilman  Pilot's  voice,  cautioning:  "  Here,  best 
take  my  hand  on  that  ladder,  Mr.  Maiden.  Last  rung's 
carried  away." 

It  was  curious  to  see  Mate  Snow's  face  at  that ;  it  was 
as  if  one  read  the  moving  history  of  years  in  it  as  he 
leaned  over  the  counter  and  touched  the  dying  man's 
breast  with  a  passion  strange  in  him. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  wicked  I  am,  Yen  Sin.  Three 
years  ago  I  did  Ginny  Silva  out  of  seventy  dollars  wages 
in  the  bogs;  and  if  he's  here  tonight  I'll  pay  him  the  last 
cent  of  it.  And  —  and  — "  He  appealed  for  mercy  to 
the  Chinaman's  unshaken  eyes.  Then,  hearing  the  min- 
ister on  the  deck  behind,  he  cast  in  the  desperate  sop  of 
truth.  "  And  — and  I  have  coveted  my  neighbor's 
wife ! " 

It  was  now  that  Minister  Maiden  cried  from  the  door- 
way :  "  That  is  nothing,  Yen  Sin  —  nothing  —  when 
you  think  oi  me! " 

You  may  laugh.  But  just  then,  in  that  rocking  death- 
chamber,  with  the  sea  and  the  dark  and  the  wind,  no  one 
laughed.  Except  Yen  Sin,  perhaps ;  he  may  have  smiled, 
though  the  mask  of  his  features  did  not  move.  Minister 
Maiden  stepped  into  the  room,  and  his  face  was  like  new 
ivory. 

"  Look  at  me !  I  have  wanted  to  bring  your  soul  to 
Christ  before  I  died.  That  is  white,  but  all  the  rest 
of  me  is  black.  I  have  lived  a  lie ;  I  have  broken  a 
law  of  God;  to  cover  that  I  have  broken  another,  an- 
other — " 

His  voice  hung  in  the  air,  filled  with  a  strange  horror 
of  itself.  The  Chinaman  fingered  his  collars.  Without 
our  consent  or  our  understanding,  he  had  done  the  thing 
which  had  so  shocked  us  when  he  said  it  with  his  lips ; 
the  heathen  sat  in  judgment,  weighing  the  sins  of  our 
little  world. 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  461 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  seemed  to  murmur.     "  And  then  ?  " 
The  minister's  eyes  widened;  pain  Hfted  him  on  his 
toes. 

"  I  am  an  adulterer,"  he  cried.  "  And  my  child  is  a 
—  a  —  bastard.  Her  mother's  husband,  Joshua  Gibbs, 
didn't  go  down  with  his  vessel  after  all.  He  was  alive 
when  I  married  her.  He  is  alive  today,  a  wanderer. 
He  learned  of  things  and  sent  me  a  letter;  it  found  me 
at  the  Infield  Conference  the  day  before  I  came  home 
that  time  to  see  my  baby.  Since  that  day  it  has  seemed 
to  me  that  I  would  suflfer  the  eternity  of  the  damned 
rather  than  that  that  stain  should  mar  my  child's  life,  and 
in  the  blackness  of  my  heart  I  have  believed  that  it 
wouldn't  if  it  weren't  known.  I  have  kept  him  quiet;  I 
have  hushed  up  the  truth.  I  have  paid  him  money,  leav- 
ing it  for  him  where  he  wrote  me  to  leave  it.  I  have 
gone  hungry  and  ragged  to  satisfy  him.  I  have  begged 
my  living  of  a  friend.  I  have  drained  the  life  of  the 
woman  I  love.  And  yet  he  is  never  content.  And  I 
have  betrayed  even  him.  For  he  forbade  me  to  see  his 
wife  ever  again,  or  even  to  know  the  child  I  had  begot- 
ten, and  I  have  gone  to  them,  in  secret,  by  night.  I 
have  sinned  not  alone  against  God,  but  against  the  devil. 
I  have  sinned  against  —  everything!" 

The  fire  which  had  swept  him  on  left  him  now  of  a 
sudden,  his  arms  hung  down  at  his  sides,  his  head 
drooped.  It  was  Mate  Snow  who  broke  the  silence,  fall- 
ing back  a  step,  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"  God  forgive  me,"  he  said  in  awe.  "  And  /  have  kept 
you  here.  You!  To  preach  the  word  of  God  to  these 
people.     God  forgive  me !  " 

"  I  think  Mista  God  laugh,  yes." 

Yen  Sin  wasn't  laughing  himself ;  he  was  looking  at  his 
collars.  Mate  Snow  shrugged  his  shoulders  fiercely,  im- 
patient of  the  interruption. 

"  7  have  kept  you  here,"  he  pursued  bitterly,  "  for  the 
good  of  my  own  soul,  which  would  have  liked  to  drive 


462  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

you  away.  I  have  kept  you  here,  even  when  you  wanted 
to  go  away — " 

"  Little  mousie  want  to  go  away.     Little  cat  say,  *  no 

—  no.' "  Yen  Sin's  head  turned  slowly  and  he  spoke 
on  to  the  bit  of  yellow  silk,  his  words  clear  and  power- 
less as  a  voice  in  a  dream.  "  No  —  no,  Mousie,  stay 
with  little  cat.  Good  little  cat.  Like  see  little  mousie 
jump.     Little  cat !  " 

Mate  Snow  wheeled  on  him,  and  I  saw  a  queer  sight 
on  his  face  for  an  instant ;  the  gray  wrinkles  of  age.  My 
cousin  Duncan  was  there,  constable  of  Urkey  village, 
and  he  saw  it  too  and  came  a  step  out  of  his  corner.  It 
was  all  over  in  a  wink;  Mate  Snow  lifted  his  shoulders 
with  a  sigh,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  You  can  see  how  far 
gone  the  poor  fellow  is." 

The  Chinaman,  careless  of  the  little  by-play,  went  on. 

"  Mista  Sam  Kow  nice  China  fella.  Mista  Minista  go 
to  Mista  Sam  Kow  in  Infield,  washy  coUa.  Mista  Yen 
Sin  lite  a  letta  to  Mista  Sam  Kow,  on  Mista  Minista 
colla-band.  See?  Mista  Sam  Kow  lite  a  letta  back  on 
colla-band.     See  ?  " 

We  saw  —  that  the  yellow  man  was  no  longer  talking 
at  random,  but  slowly,  with  his  eyes  on  the  collar  he  held 
in  his  hand,  like  a  scholar  in  his  closet,  perusing  the 
occult  pages  of  a  chronicle. 

"  Mista  Sam  Kow  say :  '  This  man  go  night-time  in 
Chestnut  Stleet;  pickee  out  letta  undah  sidewalk,  stickee 
money-bag  undah  sidewalk,  cly,  shivah,  makee  allee  same 
like  sick  fella.  Walkee  all  lound  town  allee  night.  Allee 
same  like  Chlistian  dlunk  man.     No  sleepee.     That's  all 

—  Sam  Kow.'  Mista  Yen  Sin  keepee  colla  when  Mista 
Minista  come  back ;  give  new  colla :  one,  two,  five,  seven 
time ;  Mista  Minista  say :  '  You  washy  colla  fine.  Yen 
Sin ;  this  colla,  allee  same  like  new.'  Mista  Matee  Snow, 
his  colla  allee  same  like  new,  too  — " 

Something  happened  so  suddenly  that  none  of  us  knew 
what  was  going  on.     But  there  was  my  cousin  Duncan 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  463 

standing  by  the  counter,  his  arm  and  shoulder  still  thrust 
forward  with  the  blow  he  had  given ;  and  there  was  our 
great  man  of  the  hill  flung  back  against  the  wall  with  a 
haggard  grimace  set  on  his  face. 

"  No,  you  don't !  "  Duncan  growled,  his  voice  shivering 
a  little  with  excitement.     "  No,  you  don't.  Mate !  " 

Mate  Snow  screamed,  and  his  curse  was  like  the  end 
of  the  world  in  Urkey  island. 

"  Curse  you !  The  man's  a  thief,  I  tell  you.  He's 
stolen  my  property!  I  demand  my  property  —  those 
collars  there  in  his  hand  now.  You're  constable,  you  say. 
Well,  I  want  my—" 

He  let  himself  down  on  the  bench,  as  if  the  strength 
had  left  his  knees. 

"  He's  going^  to  tell  you  lies,"  he  cried.  "  He's  mak- 
ing fools  of  you  all  with  his  —  his  —  Duncan,  boy ! 
Don't  listen  to  the  black  liar.  He's  going  to  try 
and  make  out  'twas  me  put  the  letter  under  the  walk 
in  Chestnut  Street,  up  there  to  Infield ;  that  it  was  me,  all 
these  years,  that  went  back  and  got  out  money  he  put 
there.  Me!  Mate  Snow.  Duncan,  boy;  he's  going  to 
tell  you  a  low,  black-hearted  lie !  " 

"  How  do  you  knowf  "  That  was  all  my  cousin  Dun- 
can said. 

To  the  dying  man,  nothing  made  much  difference.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  only  paused  to  gather  his  failing  breath, 
and  when  he  spoke  his  tone  was  the  same,  detached,  dis- 
passionate, with  a  ghost  of  humor  running  through  it. 

"How  many  times?"  He  counted  the  collars  with  a 
finger  tip.  "  One  two,  tlee,  six,  seven  time.  Seven 
yeahs.  Too  bad.  Any  time  Mista  Minista  wantee  con- 
fessee,  Mista  God  makee  allee  light.  Mista  Yen  Sin  allee 
same  like  Mista  God.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  Laugh. 
Cly  inside !  " 

Mate  Snow  was  leaning  forward  on  the  bench  in  a 
queer,  lazy  attitude,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands  and  his 
elbows  propped  on  his  knees.  But  no  one  looked  at  him, 
for  Minister  Maiden  was  speaking  in  the  voice  of  one 


464  CHING,  CHING.  CHINAMAN 

risen  from  the  dead,  his  eyes  bhnking  at  the  Chinaman's 
lamp. 

"  Then  you  mean  —  you  mean  that  he isn't  alive  ? 

After  all?  That  he  wasn't  ahve  —  thenf  You  mean  it 
was  all  a  —  a  kind  of  a  —  joke?  I  —  I —  Oh,  Mate! 
Mate  Snow! " 

It  was  queer  to  see  him  turning  with  his  news  to  his 
traditional  protector.  It  had  been  too  sudden ;  his  brain 
had  been  so  taken  up  with  the  naked  miracle  that  Gibbs 
was  not  alive  that  all  the  rest  of  it,  the  drawn-out  and 
devious  revenge  of  the  druggist,  had  somehow  failed  to 
get  into  him  as  yet. 

"  Mate  Snow !  "  he  cried,  running  over  to  the  sagging 
figure.  "Did  you  hear,  Mate?  Eh?  It  isn't  true!  It 
was  all  a  —  a  joke.  Mate!"  He  shook  Snow's  shoulder 
with  a  pleading  ecstasy.  "  It's  been  a  mistake.  Mate, 
and  I  am  —  she  is  —  little  Hope  is  — " 

He  fell  back  a  step,  letting  the  man  lop  over  suddenly 
on  his  doubled  knees,  and  stared  blankly  at  a  tiny  drug- 
phial,  uncorked  and  empty,  rolling  away  across  the  floor. 
He  passed  a  slow  hand  across  his  eyes.  "  Why  —  why 
—  I  —  I'm  afraid  Mate  is  —  isn't  very  —  well." 

Urkey  had  held  its  tongue  too  long.  Now  it  was  that 
the  dam  gave  way  and  the  torrent  came  whirling  down 
and  a  hundred  voices  were  lifted.  Crowds  and  shadows 
distracted  the  light.  One  cried.  "  The  man's  dead,  you 
fools;  can't  you  see?"  A  dozen  took  it  up  and  it  ran 
out  and  away  along  the  rumbling  dock.  "  Doctor !  "  an- 
other bawled.  "  He's  drank  poison  !  Where's  the  doctor 
at?"  And  that,  too,  went  out,  and  a  faint  shout  an- 
swered from  somewhere  shoreward  that  the  doctor  wag 
out  at  Si  Pilot's  place  and  Miah  White  was  after  him, 
astraddle  of  the  tar-wagon  horse.  Through  it  all  I  can 
remember  Aunt  Nickerson's  wail  continuing,  undaunted 
and  unquenchable,  "  God  save  our  souls !  God  save  our 
souls !  "  . 

And  then,  following  the  instinct  of  the  frightened  pack, 
they  were  all  gone  of  a  sudden,  carrying  the  dead. man 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  465 

to  meet  the  doctor.  I  would  have  gone,  too,  and  I  had 
gotten  as  far  as  the  door  at  their  heels,  when  I  paused 
to  look  back  at  the  Chinaman. 

He  lay  so  still  over  there  on  the  couch  —  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  he,  too,  was  dead.  And  of  a  sudden, 
leaning  there  on  the  door-frame,  the  phantom  years 
trooped  back  to  me,  and  I  saw  the  man  for  the  first  time 
moving  through  them  —  a  lone,  far  outpost  of  the  thing 
he  knew,  one  yellow  man  against  ten  thousand  whites, 
unshaken,  unappalled,  facing  the  odds,  working  so  early, 
so  late,  day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  and  smiling  a 
little,  perhaps,  as  he  peeped  behind  the  scenes  of  the  thing 
which  we  call  civilization.  Yes,  cry  as  he  might  inside, 
he  must  have  smiled  outside,  sometimes,  through  those 
years  of  terror,  at  the  sight  of  Minister  Maiden  shrinking 
at  the  shadow  of  the  ghost  of  something  that  was  noth- 
ing, to  vanish  at  a  touch  of  light. 

And  now  his  foreign  service  was  ended ;  his  post  was 
to  be  relieved  ;  and  he  could  go  wherever  he  wanted  to  go. 

Not  quite  yet.  He  had  been  dreaming,  that  was  all. 
His  eyes  opened,  and  rested,  not  on  me,  but  to  the  right 
of  me.  Then  I  saw  for  the  first  time  that  I  wasn't  alone 
in  the  room  with  him  after  all,  but  that  Minister  Maiden 
was  standing  there,  where  he  had  stood  through  all  the 
din  like  a  little  boy  struck  dumb  before  a  sudden  Christ- 
mas tree. 

And  like  a  little  boy,  he  went  red  and  white  and  began 
to  stammer. 

"I  —  I  —  Xen  Sin  — "  He  held  his  breath  a  mo- 
ment. Then  it  came  out  all  together.  "  I'll  run  and 
fetch  them  —  both!"  With  that  he  was  past  me,  out 
of  the  door  and  up  the  ladder,  and  I  heard  his  light  feet 
drumming  on  the  dock,  bearing  such  news  as  never  was. 

The  Chinaman's  eyes  had  come  to  me  now,  and  there 
was  a  queer  light  in  them  that  I  couldn't  understand.  An 
adventure  beyond  my  little  comprehension  was  taking 
shape  behind  them,  and  all  I  knew  enough  to  do  was  to 


466  CHING,  CHING,  CHINAMAN 

sneak  around  behind  the  counter  and  take  hold  of  one  of 
his  fingers  and  shake  it  up  and  down,  like  one  man  taking 
a  day's  leave  of  another.  His  eyes  thanked  me  for  my 
violence;  then  they  were  back  again  to  their  mysterious 
speculations.  An  overweening  excitement  gathered  in 
them.  He  frightened  me.  Quite  abruptly,  as  if  an  un- 
expected reservoir  of  energy  had  been  tapped,  the  dying 
man  lifted  on  an  elbow  and  slid  one  leg  over  the  edge  of 
the  couch.  Then  he  glanced  at  me  with  an  air  almost 
furtive. 

"  Boy,"  he  whispered.  "  Run  quick  gettee  Mista  Min- 
ista,  yes." 

"  But  he's  coming  himself,"  I  protested.  "  You  better 
lay  back." 

"  Mista  Yen  Sin  askee  please!     Please,  boy." 

What  was  there  for  me  to  do?  I  ran.  Once  on  the 
dock  above,  misgivings  assailed  me.  I  was  too  young, 
and  the  night  was  too  appalling.  I  had  forgotten  the 
wind,  down  in  the  cabin,  but  in  the  open  here  I  felt  its 
weight.  It  grew  all  the  while;  its  voice  drowned  the 
world  now,  and  there  was  spindrift  through  it,  picked 
from  the  back  shore  of  the  island  and  flung  all  the  way 
across.  Objects  were  lost  in  it;  ghostly  things,  shore 
lights,  fish-houses,  piers,  strained  seaward.  I  heard  the 
packet's  singing  masts  at  the  next  wharf,  but  I  saw  no 
packet.  The  ponderous  scow  below  me  became  a  thing 
of  life  and  light,  an  eager  bird  fluttering  at  its  bonds  and 
calling  to  the  wide  spaces.  To  my  bewildered  eyes  it 
seemed  to  move  —  it  was  moving,  shaking  off  the  heavy 
hands  of  bondage,  joining  itself  with  the  wind.  I  got 
down  on  my  knees  of  a  sudden  and  peered  at  the  deck. 

"Yen  Sin!"  I  screamed.  "What  you  doin'  out 
there?" 

I  saw  him  dimly  in  the  open  air  outside  his  door, 
fumbling  and  fumbling  at  something.  This  was  his  great 
adventure,  the  thing  that  had  gleamed  in  his  eyes  and 
had  tapped  that  unguessed  reservoir  of  strength.  His 
voice  crept  back  to  me,  harassed  by  the  wind. 


WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE  467 

"  This  velly  funny  countly,  Mista  Boy.  Mista  Yen  Sin 
go  back  China  way." 

His  bow-line  was  fast  to  an  iron  ring  on  the  wharf. 
I  wanted  to  hold  him  back,  and  I  clutched  at  the  rope 
with  my  hands  as  if  my  little  strength  were  something 
against  that  freed  thing.  The  line  came  up  to  me  easily, 
cast  off  from  the  scow  at  the  other  end. 

He  was  waning.  His  window  and  door  and  the  little 
fan-light  before  the  door  were  all  I  could  see  now,  and 
even  that  pattern  blurred  and  became  uncertain  and 
ghostly  on  the  mat  of  the  night.  He  was  clear  of  the 
wharves  now,  and  the  wind  had  him  —  sailing  China  way 
—  so  peaceful,  so  dreamless,  surrounded  by  his  tell-tale 
cargo  of  Urkey's  unwashed  collars. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  I  crouched  there  on  the 
timbers,  staring  out  into  the  havoc  of  that  black  night, 
and  listening  to  the  hungry  clamor  of  the  Bight.  I 
must  have  been  crying  for  the  minister,  over  and  over, 
without  knowing  it,  for  when  my  cousin  Duncan's  hand 
fell  on  my  shoulder  and  I  started  up  half  out  of  my 
wits,  he  pointed  a  finger  toward  the  outer  edge  of  the 
wharf. 

And  there  they  were  in  a  little  close  group.  Sympathy 
Gibbs  standing  straight  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  and 
Minister  Maiden  down  on  his  knees.  There  were  many 
people  on  the  pier,  all  with  their  eyes  to  sea,  all  except 
Sympathy  Gibbs ;  hers  were  up-shore,  where  Mate  Snow 
lay  in  state  on  his  own  counter,  all  his  sweet  revenge  be- 
hind him  and  gone. 

I  thought  little  Hope  was  asleep  in  the  swathing  shawl, 
till  I  saw  the  dark  round  spots  of  her  eyes.  If  it  was  a 
strange  night  for  the  others,  it  was  stranger  still  to  her. 

The  wind  and  the  rain  beat  on  Minister  Maiden's 
bended  back.  He  loved  it  that  way.  The  missionary 
was  praying  for  the  soul  of  the  heathen. 


NONE  SO  BLIND  ^ 

By  MARY  SYNON 

From  Harper's  Magazine. 

WE  were  listening  to  Leila  Burton's  music  —  her 
husband,  and  Dick  Allport,  and  I  —  with  the  throb 
of  London  beating  under  us  like  the  surge  of  an  ocean  in 
anger,  when  there  rose  above  the  smooth  harmonies  of 
the  piano  and  the  pulsing  roar  of  the  night  a  sound  more 
poignant  than  them  both,  the  quavering  melody  of  a 
street  girl's  song. 

Through  the  purpling  twilight  of  that  St.  John's  Eve  I 
had  been  drifting  in  dreams  while  Leila  had  gone  from 
golden  splendors  of  chords  which  reflected  the  glow  on 
westward-fronting  windows  into  somber  symphonies 
which  had  seemed  to  make  vocal  the  turbulent  soul  of  the 
city  —  for  Dick  Allport  and  I  were  topping  the  structure 
of  that  house  of  life  that  was  to  shelter  the  love  we  had 
long  been  cherishing.  With  Leila  playing  in  that  art 
which  had  dowered  her  with  fame,  I  was  visioning  the 
glory  of  such  love  as  she  and  Standish  Burton  gave  each 
other  while  I  watched  Dick,  sensing  rather  than  seeing 
the  dearness  of  him  as  he  gave  to  the  mounting  climaxes 
the  tense  interest  he  always  tendered  to  Leila's  music. 

I  had  known,  before  I  came  to  love  Dick  Allport,  other 
loves  and  other  lovers.  Because  I  had  followed  will-o'- 
the-wisps  of  fancy  through  marshes  of  sentiment  I  could 
appreciate  the  more  the  truth  of  that  flame  which  he  and 

1  Copyright    191 7,    by    Harper   and    Brothers.,    Copyright    1918,    by    Mary 
Synon. 

468 


MARY  SYNON  469 

I  had  lighted  for  our  guidance  on  the  road.  A  moody 
boy  he  had  been  when  I  first  met  him,  full  of  a  boy's 
high  chivalry  and  of  a  boy's  dark  despairs.  A  moody 
man  he  had  become  in  the  years  that  had  denied  him  the 
material  success  toward  which  he  had  striven ;  but  some- 
thing in  the  patience  of  his  efforts,  something  in  the  fine- 
ness of  his  struggle  had  endeared  him  to  me  as  no  tri- 
umph could  have  done.  Because  he  needed  me,  because 
I  had  come  to  believe  that  I  meant  to  him  belief  in  the 
ultimate  good  of  living,  as  well  as  belief  in  womanhood, 
I  cherished  in  my  soul  that  love  of  him  which  yearned 
over  him  even  as  it  longed  for  him. 

Watching  him  in  the  dusk  while  he  lounged  in  that 
concentrated  quiet  of  attention,  I  went  on  piling  the  bricks 
of  that  wide  house  of  happiness  we  should  enter  together ; 
and,  although  I  could  see  him  but  dimly,  so  well  did  I 
know  every  line  of  his  face  that  I  could  fancy  the  little 
smile  that  quivered  around  his  lips  and  that  shone  from 
the  depths  of  his  eyes  as  Leila  played  the  measures  we 
both  loved.  I  must  have  been  smiling  in  answer  when 
the  song  of  the  girl  outside  rose  high. 

Not  until  that  alien  sound  struck  athwart  the  power 
and  beauty  of  the  spell  did  I  come  to  know  how  high  I 
had  builded  my  castles ;  but  the  knocking  at  the  gate  top- 
pled down  the  dreams  as  Leila  swept  a  discord  over  the 
keyboard  and  crossed  to  the  open  window. 

In  the  dusk,  as  she  flung  back  the  heavy  curtains,  I 
could  see  the  bulk  of  Brompton  Oratory  set  behind  the 
houses  like  the  looming  back-drop  of  a  painted  scene. 
Nearer,  in  front  of  a  tall  house  across  the  way,  stood  the 
singer,  a  thin  girl  whose  shadowy  presence  seemed  ani- 
mated by  a  curious  bravery.  In  a  nasal,  plaintive  voice 
she  was  singing  the  words  of  a  ballatl  of  love  and  of  lov- 
ing that  London,  as  only  London  can,  had  made  curiously 
its  own  that  season.  The  insistence  of  her  plea  —  for 
she  sang  as  if  she  cried  out  her  life's  longing,  sang  as  if 
she  called  on  the  passing  crowd  not  for  alms,  but  for 
understanding  —  made  her  for  the  moment,  before  she 


470  NONE  SO  BLIND 

faded  back  into  oblivion,  an  artist,  voicing  the  heartache 
and  the  heartbreak  of  womankind ;  and  the  artist  in  Leila 
Burton  responded  to  the  thrill. 

Until  the  ending  of  the  song  she  stood  silent  in  front 
of  the  window,  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  she,  and  not 
the  scene  beyond  her,  held  the  center  of  the  stage.  Not 
for  her  beauty,  although  at  times  Leila  Burton  gave  the 
impression  of  being  exquisitely  lovely,  was  she  remark- 
able, but  rather  for  that  receptive  attitude  that  made  her 
an  inspired  listener.  In  me,  who  had  known  her  for  but 
a  little  while,  she  awakened  my  deepest  and  drowsiest 
ambition,  the  desire  to  express  in  pictures  the  light  and 
the  shade  of  the  London  I  knew.  With  her  I  could  feel 
the  power,  and  the  glory,  and  the  fear,  and  the  terror 
of  the  city  as  I  never  did  at  other  times.  It  was  not 
alone  that  she  was  all  things  to  all  men ;  it  was  that  she 
led  men  and  women  who  knew  her  to  the  summits  of  their 
aspirations. 

Even  Standish  Burton,  big,  sullen  man  that  he  was, 
immersed  in  his  engineering  problems,  responded  to  his 
wife's  spiritual  charm  with  a  readiness  that  always 
aroused  in  Dick  and  myself  an  admiration  for  him  that 
our  other  knowledge  of  him  did  not  justify.  He  was, 
aside  from  his  relationship  to  Leila,  a  man  whose  hard- 
ness suggested  a  bitter  knowledge  of  dark  ways  of  life. 
Now,  crouched  down  in  the  depths  of  his  chair,  he  kept 
watching  Leila  with  a  gaze  of  smouldering  adoration,  re- 
vealing that  love  for  her  which  had  been  strong  enough 
to  break  down  those  barriers  which  she  had  erected  in 
the  years  while  he  had  worked  for  her  in  Jacob's  bondage. 
In  her  he  seemed  to  be  discovering,  all  over  again,  the 
vestal  to  tend  the  fires  of  his  faith. 

Dick  Allport,  too,  bending  forward  over  the  table  on 
which  his  hands  fell  clenched,  was  studying  Leila  with 
an  inscrutable  stare  that  seemed  to  be  of  query.  I  was 
wondering  what  it  meant,  wondering  the  more  because 
my  failure  to  understand  its  meaning  hung  another  veil 
between  my  vision  and  my  shrine  of  belief  in  the  fullness 


MARY  SYNON  471 

of  love,  when  the  song  outside  came  to  an  end  and  Leila 
turned  back  to  us. 

Her  look,  winging  its  way  to  Standish,  lighted  her  face 
even  beyond  the  glow  from  the  lamps  which  she  switched 
on.  For  an  instant  his  heavy  countenance  flared  into 
brightness.  Dick  Allport  sighed  almost  imperceptibly  as 
he  turned  to  me.  I  had  a  feeling  that  such  a  fire  as  the 
Burtons  kindled  for  each  other  should  have  sprung  up  in 
the  moment  between  Dick  and  me,  for  we  had  fought 
and  labored  and  struggled  for  our  love  as  Standish  and 
Leila  had  never  needed  to  battle.  Because  of  our  con- 
stancy I  expected  something  better  than  the  serene  af- 
fectionateness  that  shone  in  Dick's  smile.  I  wanted  such 
stormy  passion  of  devotion  as  Burton  gave  to  Leila,  such 
love  as  I,  remembering  a  night  of  years  ago,  knew  that 
Dick  could  give.  It  was  the  old  desire  of  earth,  spoken 
in  the  street  girl's  song,  that  surged  in  me  until  I  could 
have  cried  out  in  my  longing  for  the  soul  of  the  sacra- 
ment whose  substance  I  had  been  given ;  but  the  knowl- 
edge that  we  were,  the  four  of  us,  conventional  people  in 
a  conventional  setting  locked  my  heart  as  it  locked  my  lips 
until  I  could  mirror  the  ease  with  which  Leila  bore  her- 
self. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  lightly,  "  that  I  should 
like  to  be  a  street  singer  for  a  night.  If  only  a  piano 
were  not  so  cumbersome,  I  should  go  out  and  play  into 
the  ears  of  the  city  the  thing  that  girl  put  into  her  song." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  asked  her.  "  It  would  be  an  adventure, 
and  life  has  too  few  adventures." 

"  It  might  have  too  many,"  Dick  said. 

"  Not  for  Leila,"  Standish  declared.  "  Life's  for  her  a 
quest  of  joy." 

"  That's  it,"  Dick  interposed.  "  Her  adventures  have 
all  been  joyous." 

"  But  they  haven't,"  Leila  insisted.  "  I'm  no  spoiled 
darling  of  the  gods.  I've  been  poor,  poor  as  that  girl  out 
there.  I've  had  heartaches,  and  disappointments,  and 
misfortunes." 


472  NONE  SO  BLIND 

"  Not  vital  ones,"  Dick  declared.  "  You've  never  had 
a  knock-out  blow." 

"  She  doesn't  know  what  one  is,"  Standish  laughed,  but 
there  sounded  a  ruefulness  in  his  laughter  that  told  of 
the  kind  of  blow  he  must  once  have  suffered  to  bring  that 
note  in  his  voice.  Standish  Burton  took  life  lightly,  ex- 
cept where  Leila  was  concerned.  His  manner  now  indi- 
cated, almost  mysteriously,  that  something  threatened  his 
harbor  of  peace,  but  the  regard  Leila  gave  to  him  proved 
that  the  threat  of  impending  danger  had  not  come  to  her. 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  know,"  she  persisted. 

"  Vicariously,"  I  suggested.     "  All  artists  do." 

*'  No,  actually,"  she  said. 

"  You're  wrong,"  said  Standish.  "  You're  the  sort  of 
woman  whom  the  world  saves  from  its  own  cruelties." 

There  was  something  so  essentially  true  in  his  appraisal 
of  his  wife  that  the  certainty  covered  the  banality  of  his 
statement  and  kept  Dick  and  myself  in  agreement  with 
him.  Leila  Burton,  exquisitely  remote  from  all  things 
commonplace,  was  unquestionably  a  woman  to  be  pro- 
tected. Without  envy  —  since  my  own  way  had  its  com- 
pensations in  full  measure  —  I  admitted  it. 

"  I  think  that  you  must  have  forgotten,  if  you  ever 
knew,"  she  said,  "  how  I  struggled  here  in  London  for 
the  little  recognition  I  have  won." 

"  Oh,  that !  "  Dick  Allport  deprecated.  "  That  isn't 
what  Stan  means.  Every  one  in  the  world  worth  talking 
about  goes  through  that  sort  of  struggle.  He  means  the 
flinging  down  from  a  high  mountain  after  you've  seen  the 
glories,  not  of  this  world,  but  of  another,  the  casting  out 
from  paradise  after  you've  learned  what  paradise  may 
mean.  He  spoke  with  an  odd  timbre  of  emotion  in  his 
voice,  a  quality  that  puzzled  me  for  the  moment. 

"  That's  it,"  said  Standish,  gratefully.  "  Those  are 
the  knock-out  blows." 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  know  them  " —  Leila  admitted  her 
defeat  — "  and  I  hope  that  I  .shall  not." 

Softly  she  began  to  play  the  music  of  an  accompani- 


MARY  SYNON  473 

ment.  There  was  a  familiar  hauntingness  in  its  strains 
that  puzzled  me  until  I  associated  them  witl^  the  song 
that  Burton  used  to  whistle  so  often  in  the  times  when 
Leila  was  in  Paris  and  he  had  turned  for  companionship 
to  Dick  and  to  me. 

"  I've  heard  Stan  murder  that  often  enough  to  be  able 
to  try  it  myself,"  I  told  her. 

"  I  didn't  know  he  knew  it,"  she  said.  "  I  heard  it 
for  the  first  time  the  other  day.  A  girl  —  I  didn't  hear 
her  name  —  sang  it  for  an  encore  at  the  concert  of  the 
Musicians'  Club.  She  sang  it  well,  too.  She  was  a  queer 
girl,"  Leila  laughed,  "  a  Httle  bit  of  a  thing,  with  all  the 
air  of  a  tragedy  queen.  And  you  should  have  heard  how 
she  sang  that !  You  know  the  words  ?  " —  she  asked  me 
over  her  shoulder: 

"  And  because  I,  too,  am  a  lover, 

And  my  love  is  far  from  me, 
I  hated  the  two  on  the  sands  there. 

And  the  moon,  and  the  sands,  and  the  sea." 

"  And  the  moon,  and  the  sands,  and  the  sea,"  Dick 
repeated.  He  rose,  going  to  the  window  where  Leila 
had  stood,  and  looking  outward.  When  he  faced  us 
again  he  must  have  seen  the  worry  in  my  eyes,  for  he 
smiled  at  me  with  the  old,  endearing  fondness  and 
touched  my  hair  lightly  as  he  passed. 

"  What  was  she  like  —  the  girl  ? "  Standish  asked, 
lighting  another  cigarette. 

"  Oh,  just  ordinary  and  rather  pretty.  Big  brown 
eyes  that  seemed  to  be  forever  asking  a  question  that  no 
one  could  ans\yer,  and  a  Httle  pointed  chin  that  she  flung 
up  when  she  sang."  Dick  Allport  looked  quickly  across 
at  Burton,  but  Stan  gave  him  no  answering  glance.  He 
was  staring  at  Leila  as  she  went  on :  "I  don't  believe  I 
should  have  noticed  her  at  all  if  she  hadn't  come  to  me 
as  I  was  leaving  the  hall.  *  Are  you  Mrs.  Standish  Bur- 
ton ? '  she  asked  me.  When  I  told  her  that  I  was,  she 
stared  me  full  in  the  face,  then  walked  off  without  an- 


474  NONE  SO  BLIND 

other  word.  I  wish  that  I  could  describe  to  you,  though, 
the  scorn  and  contempt  that  blazed  in  her  eyes.  If  I 
had  been  a  singer  who  had  robbed  her  of  her  chance  at 
Covent  Garden,  I  could  have  understood.  But  I'd  never 
seen  her  before,  and  my  singing  wouldn't  rouse  the  envy 
of  a  crow  !  "  She  laughed  light-heartedly  over  the  recol- 
lection, then  her  face  clouded.  "  Do  you  know,"  she 
mused,  "  that  I  thought  just  now,  when  the  girl  was 
singing  on  the  street,  that  I  should  like  to  know  that 
other  girl  ?  There  was  something  about  her  that  I  can't 
forget.  She  was  the  sort  that  tries,  and  fails,  and  sinks. 
Some  day,  I'm  afraid,  she'll  be  singing  on  the  streets, 
and,/ if  I  ever  hear  her,  I  shall  have  a  terrible  thought  that 
I  might  have  saved  her  from  it,  if  only  I  had  tried  1  " 

"  Better  let  her  sort  alone,"  Burton  said,  shortly.  He 
struck  a  match  and  relit  his  cigarette  with  a  gesture  of 
savage  annoyance.  Leila  looked  at  him  in  amazement, 
and  Dick  gave  him  a  glance  that  seemed  to  counsel  silence. 
There  was  a  hostility  about  the  mood  into  which  Standish 
relapsed  that  seemed  to  bring  in  upon  us  some  of  the 
urgent  sorrows  of  the  city  outside,  as  if  he  had  drawn 
aside  a  curtain  to  show  us  a  world  alien  to  the  place  of 
beauty  and  of  the  making  of  beauty  through  which  Leila 
moved.  Even  she  must  have  felt  the  import  of  his  mood, 
for  she  let  her  hands  fall  on  the  keys  while  Dick  and  I 
stared  at  each  other  before  the  shock  of  this  crackle  that 
seemed  to  threaten  the  perfection  of  their  happiness. 

From  Brompton  came  the  boom  of  the  bell  for  even- 
song. Down  Piccadilly  ran  the  roar  of  the  night  traffic, 
wending  a  blithesome  way  to  places  of  pleasure.  It  was 
the  hour  when  London  was  wont  to  awaken  to  the  thrill 
of  its  greatness,  its  power,  its  vastness,  its  strength,  and 
its  glory,  and  to  send  down  luminous  lanes  its  carnival 
crowd  of  men  and  women.  It  was  the  time  when  welter- 
ing misery  shrank  shrouded  into  merciful  gloom;  when 
the  East  End  lay  far  from  our  hearts ;  when  poverty  and 
sin  and  shame  went  skulking  into  byways  where  we  need 
never   follow;  when  painted  ^yomen   held  back  in   the 


MARY  SYNON  475 

shadows ;  when  the  pall  of  night  rested  like  a  velvet  car- 
pet over  the  spaces  of  that  floor  that,  by  daylight,  gave 
glimpses  into  loathsome  cellars  of  humanity.  It  was,  as 
it  had  been  so  often  of  late,  an  hour  of  serene  beauty, 
that  first  hour  of  darkness  in  a  June  night  with  the  season 
coming  to  an  end,  an  hour  of  dusk  to  be  remembered  in 
exile  or  in  age. 

There  should  have  come  to  us  then  the  strains  of  an  or- 
chestra floating  in  with  the  fragrance  of  gardenias  from  a 
vendor's  basket,  symbols  of  life's  call  to  us,  luring  us  out 
beneath  stars  of  joy.  But,  instead,  the  bell  of  Brompton 
pealed  out  warningly  over  our  souls,  and,  when  its  clang- 
ing died,  there  drifted  in  the  sound  of  a  preaching  voice. 

Only  phrases  clattering  across  the  darkness  were  the 
words  from  beyond  —  resonant  through  the  open  win- 
dows :  "  The  Cross  is  always  ready,  and  everywhere 
awaiteth  thee.  .  .  .  Turn  thyself  upward,  or  turn  thyself 
downward ;  turn  thyself  inward,  or  turn  thyself  outward ; 
everywhere  thou  shalt  find  the  Cross ;  ...  if  thou  fling 
away  one  Cross  thou  wilt  find  another,  and  perhaps  a 
heavier." 

Like  sibylline  prophecy  the  voice  of  the  unseen  preacher 
struck  down  on  us.  We  moved  uneasily,  the  four  of  us, 
as  he  cried  out  challenge  to  the  passing  world  before  his 
voice  went  down  before  the  surge  of  a  hymn.  Then,  just 
as  the  gay  whirl  of  ca^s  and  omnibuses  beat  once  more 
upon  the  pavements,  and  London  swung  joyously  into 
our  hearts  again,  the  bell  of  the  telephone  in  the  hall  rang 
out  with  a  quivering  jangle  that  brought  Leila  to  her  feet 
even  as  Standish  jumped  to  answer  its  summons. 

She  stood  beside  the  piano  as  he  gave  answer  to  the 
call,  watching  him  as  if  she  expected  evil  news.  Dick, 
who  had  moved  back  into  the  shadow  from  a  lamp  on 
the  table,  was  staring  with  that  same  searching  gaze  he 
had  bestowed  on  her  when  she  had  lingered  beside  the 
window.  I  was  looking  at  him,  when  a  queer  cry  from 
Standish  whirled  me  around. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  hall  he  was  standing  with  the 


476  NONE  SO  BLIND 

instrument  in  his  hands,  clutching  it  with  the  stupidity 
of  a  man  who  has  been  struck  by  an  unexpected  and 
unexplainable  missile.  His  face  had  gone  to  a  grayish 
white,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  he  set  the  receiver  on 
the  hook.  His  eyes  were  bulging  from  emotion  and  he 
kept  wetting  his  lips  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  What  is  it?  "  Leila  cried.  "  What's  happened,  Stan? 
Can't  you  tell  me  ?    What  is  it  ?  " 

Not  to  her,  but  to  Dick  Allport,  he  made  answer. 
"  Bessie  Lowe  is  dead !  " 

I  saw  Dick  AUport's  thunderstruck  surprise  Ijefore  he 
arose.  I  saw  his  glance  go  from  Standish  to  Leila  with  a 
questioning  that  overrode  all  other  possible  emotion  in 
him.  Then  I  saw  him  look  at  Burton  as  if  he  doubted  his 
sanity.  His  voice,  level  as  ever,  rang  sharply  across  the 
other  man's  distraction. 

"  When  did  she  die?"  he  asked  him. 

"  Just  now."  He  ran  his  hand  over  his  hair,  gazing 
at  Dick  as  if  Leila  and  I  were  not  there.  "  She  —  she 
killed  herself  down  in  the  Hotel  Meynard." 

"  Why  ?  "  Leila's  voice,  hard  with  terror,  snapped  off 
the  word. 

"  She  —  she —  I  don't  know."  He  stared  at  his  wife 
as  if  he  had  just  become  conscious  of  her  presence.  The 
grayness  in  his  face  deepened,  and  his  lips  grew  livid. 
Like  a  man  condemned  to  death,  he  stared  at  the  world 
he  was  losing. 

"  Who  is  Bessie  Lowe?  "  Leila  questioned.  "  And  why 
have  they  called  you  to  tell  of  her?"  Her  eyes  blazed 
with  a  fire  that  seemed  about  to  singe  pretense  from  his 
soul. 

His  hand  went  to  his  throat,  and  I  saw  Leila  whiten. 
Her  hand,  resting  on  the  piano,  trembled,  but  her  face 
held  immobile,  although  I  knew  that  all  the  happiness  of 
the  rest  of  her  life  hung  upon  his  answer.  On  what 
Standish  Burton  would  tell  her  depended  the  years  to 
come.  In  that  moment  I  knew  that  she  loved  him  even 
as  I  loved  Dick,  even  as  women  have  always  loved  and 


MARY  SYNON  477 

will  always  love  the  men  whom  fate  had  marked  for  their 
caring;  and  in  a  sudden  flash  of  vision  I  knew,  too,  that 
Burton,  no  matter  what  Bessie  Lowe  or  any  other  girl 
had  ever  been  to  him,  worshiped  his  wife  with  an  in- 
tensity of  devotion  that  would  make  all  his  days  one  long 
reparation  for  whatever  wrong  he  might  have  done  her. 
I  knew,  though,  that,  if  he  had  done  the  wrong,  she 
would  never  again  be  able  to  give  him  the  eager  love  he 
desired,  and  I,  too,  an  unwilling  spectator,  waited  on  his 
words  for  his  future,  and  Leila's;  but  his  voice  did  not 
make  answer.     It  was  Dick  Allport  who  spoke. 

"  Bessie  Lowe  is  a  girl  I  used  to  care  for,"  he  said. 
"  She  is  the  girl  who  sang  at  the  Musicians'  Club,  the 
girl  who  spoke  to  you.  She  heard  that  I  was  going  to  be 
married.  She  wanted  me  to  come  back  to  her.  I  re- 
fused." 

He  was  standing  in  the  shadow,  looking  neither  at 
Leila  nor  at  me,  but  at  Standish  Burton.  Burton  turned 
to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered  thickly,  "  they  told  me  to  tell  you. 
They  knew  you'd  be  here." 

"  I  see,"  said  Leila.  She  looked  at  Standish  and  then 
at  Dick  Allport,  and  there  came  into  her  eyes  a  queer, 
glazed  stare  that  filmed  their  brightness.  "  I  am  sorry 
that  I  asked  questions,  Mr.  Allport,  about  something  that 
was  nothing  to  me.     Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  forgiven,"  he  said.  He  turned 
to  her  and  smiled  a  little.  She  tried  to  answer  his  smile, 
but  a  gasp  came  from  her  instead. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "  so  sorry  for  her ! " 

It  was  Standish's  gaze  that  brought  to  me  sudden  re- 
alization that  I,  too,  had  a  part  in  the  drama.  Until  I 
found  his  steady  stare  on  me  I  had  felt  apart  from  the 
play  that  he  and  Dick  and  Leila  were  going  through,  but 
with  his  urgent  glare  I  awoke  into  knowledge  that  the 
message  he  had  taken  for  Dick  held  for  me  the  same 
significance  that  Leila  had  thought  it  bore  for  her.  Like 
a  stab  from  a  knife  came  the  thought  that  this  girl  — 


478  NONE  SO  BLIND 

whoever  she  was  —  had,  in  her  dying,  done  what  she  had 
not  done  in  life,  taken  Dick  Allport  from  me.  There 
went  over  me  numbing  waves  of  a  great  sense  of  loss, 
bearing  me  out  on  an  ocean  of  oblivion.  Against  these 
I  fought  desperately  to  hold  myself  somewhere  near  the 
shore  of  sensibility.  As  if  I  were  beholding  him  from  a 
great  distance,  I  could  see  Dick  standing  in  the  lamplight 
in  front  of  Leila  Burton.  Understanding  of  how  dear  he 
was  to  me,  of  how  vitally  part  of  me  he  had  grown  in 
the  years  through  which  I  had  loved  him  —  sometimes 
lightly,  sometimes  stormily,  but  always  faithfully  — 
beaconed  me  inshore;  and  the  plank  of  faith  in  him, 
faith  that  held  in  itself  something  of  forgiving  charity, 
floated  out  to  succor  my  drowning  soul.  I  moved  across 
the  room  while  Standish  Burton  kept  his  unwinking  gaze 
upon  me,  and  Leila  never  looked  up  from  the  piano.  I 
had  come  beside  Dick  before  he  heard  me. 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  had  only  just  then  remem- 
bered that  I  was  there.  Into  his  eyes  flashed  a  look  of 
poignant  remorse.  He  shrank  back  from  me  a  little  as  I 
touched  his  hand,  and  I  turned  to  Leila,  who  had  not 
stirred  from  the  place  where  she  had  listened  to  Stan- 
dish's  cry  when  he  took  the  fateful  message.  "  We  are 
going,"  I  said,  "  to  do  what  we  can  —  for  her." 

She  moved  then  to  look  at  me,  and  I  saw  that  her  eyes 
held  not  the  compassion  I  had  feared,  but  a  strange 
speculativeness,  as  if  she  questioned  what  I  knew  rather 
than  what  I  felt.  Their  contemplating  quiet  somehow 
disturbed  me  more  than  had  her  husband's  flashlight 
scrutiny,  and  with  eyes  suddenly  blinded  .and  throat 
drawn  tight  with  terror  I  took  my  way  beside  Dick  All- 
port  out  from  the  soft  lights  of  the  Burtons'  house  into 
the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Outside  we  paused  a  moment,  waiting  for  a  cab.  For 
the  first  time  since  he  had  told  Leila  of  Bessie  Lowe. 
Dick  spoke  to  me.  "  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  it  would  be 
just  as  well  if  you  didn't  come." 

"  I  must,"  I  told  him.     "  It  isn't  curiosity.     You  un- 


MARY  SYNON  479 

derstand  that,  don't  you?  It  is  simply  that  this  is  the 
time  for  me  to  stand  by  you,  if  ever  I  shall  do  it,  Dick." 

"  I  don't  deserve  it."  There  was  a  break  in  his  voice. 
"  But  I  shall  try  to,  my  dear.  I  can't  promise  you  much, 
but  I  can  promise  you  that." 

Down  the  brightness  of  Piccadilly  into  the  fuller  glow 
of  Regent  Street  we  rode  without  speech.  Somewhere 
below  the  Circus  we  turned  aside  and  went  through  dim 
canons  of  houses  that  opened  a  way  past  the  Museum 
and  let  us  into  Bloomsbury.  There  in  a  wilderness  of 
cheap  hotels  and  lodging-houses  we  found  the  Meynard. 

A  gas  lamp  was  flaring  in  the  hall  when  the  porter 
admitted  us.  At  a  desk  set  under  the  stairway  a  pale- 
faced  clerk  awaited  us  with  staring  insolence  that  shifted 
to  annoyance  when  Dick  asked  him  if  we  might  go  to 
Bessie  Lowe's  room.  "  No,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  The 
officers  won't  let  any  one  in  there.  They've  taken  her  to 
the  undertaker's." 

He  gave  us  the  location  of  the  place  with  a  scorn  that 
sent  us  out  in  haste.  I,  at  least,  felt  a  sense  of  relief  that 
I  did  not  have  to  go  up  to  the  place  where  this  unknown 
girl  had  thrown  away  the  greatest  gift.  As  we  walked 
through  the  poorly  lighted  streets  toward  the  Tottenham 
Court  Road  I  felt  for  the  first  time  a  surge  of  that  emo- 
tion that  Leila  Burton  had  voiced,  a  pity  for  the  dead 
girl.  And  yet,  stealing  a  look  at  Dick  as  he  walked  on- 
ward quietly,  sadly,  but  with  a  dignity  that  lifted  him 
above  the  sordidness  of  the  circumstances,  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  blame  him  as  I  should.  It  was  London,  I 
thought,  and  life  that  had  tightened  the  rope  on  the  girl. 

Strangely  I  felt  a  lightness  of  relief  in  the  realization 
that  the  catastrophe  having  come,  was  not  really  as  ter- 
rible as  it  had  seemed  back  there  in  Leila's  room.  It 
was  an  old  story  that  many  women  had  conned,  and 
since,  after  all,  Dick  Allport  was  yet  young,  and  my  own, 
I  condoned  the  sin  for  the  sake  of  the  sinner;  and  yet, 
even  as  I  held  the  thought  close  to  my  aching  heart,  I  felt 
that  I  was  somehow  letting  slip  from  my  shoulders  the 


48o  NONE  SO  BLIND 

cross  that  had  been  laid  upon  them,  the  cross  that  I  should 
have  borne,  the  burden  of  shame  and  sorrow  for  the 
wrong  that  the  man  I  loved  had  done  to  the  girl  who  had 
died  for  love  of  him. 

The  place  where  she  lay,  a  gruesome  establishment  set 
in  behind  that  highway  of  reeking  cheapness,  the  Totten- 
ham Court  Road,  was  very  quiet  when  we  entered.  A 
black-garbed  man  came  to  meet  us  from  a  room  in  which 
we  saw  two  tall  candles  burning.  Dick  spoke  to  him 
sharply,  asking  if  any  one  had  come  to  look  after  the 
dead  girl. 

"  No  one  with  authority,"  the  man  whined -r-"  just  a 
girl  as  lived  with  her  off  and  on." 

He  stood,  rubbing  his  hands  together  as  Dick  went 
into  hurried  details  with  him,  and  I  went  past  them  into 
the  room  where  the  candles  burned.  For  an  instant,  as 
I  stood  at  the  door,  I  had  the  desire  to  run  away  from  it 
all,  but  I  pulled  myself  together  and  went  over  to  the 
place  where  lay  the  girl  they  had  called  Bessie  Lowe. 

I  had  drawn  back  the  sheet  and  was  standing  looking 
down  at  the  white  face  when  I  heard  a  sob  in  the  room. 
I  replaced  the  covering  and  turned  to  see  in  the  corner 
the  shadowy  form  of  a  woman  whose  eyes  blazed  at  me 
out  of  the  dark.  While  I  hesitated,  wondering  if  this 
were  the  girl  who  had  lived  occasionally  with  Bessie 
Lowe,  she  came  closer,  staring  at  me  with  scornful  hate. 
Miserably  thin,  wretchedly  nervous  as  she  was,  she  had 
donned  for  the  nonce  a  mantle  of  dignity  that  she  seemed 
to  be  trailing  as  she  approached,  glaring  at  me  with  furi- 
ous resentment.  "  So  you  thought  as  how  you'd  come 
here,"  she  demanded  of  me,  her  crimsoned  face  close  to 
my  own,  "  to  see  what  she  was  like,  to  see  what  sort  of 
a  girl  had  him  before  you  took  him  away  from  her? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  something,  and  you  can  forget  it  or  re- 
member it,  as  you  like.  Bessie  Lowe  was  a  good  girl 
until  she  ran  into  him,  and  she'd  have  stayed  good,  I  tell 
you,  if  he'd  let  her  alone.  She  was  a  fool,  though,  and 
she  thought  that  he'd  marry  her  some  day  —  and  all  the 


MARY  SYNON  481 

time  he  was  only  waiting  until  you'd  take  him !  You 
never  think  of  our  kind,  do  you,  when  you're  living  out 
your  lives,  wondering  if  you  care  enough  to  marry  the 
men  who're  worshipping  you  while  they're  playing  with 
us?  Well,  perhaps  it  won't  be  anything  to  you,  but,  all 
the  same,  there's  some  kind  of  a  God,  and  if  He's  just 
He'll  punish  you  when  He  punishes  Standish  Burton !  " 

"  But  I  — "  I  gasped.     "  Did  you  think  that  I  —  ?  " 

"  Aren't  you  his  wife  ?  "  She  came  near  to  me,  peering 
at  me  in  the  flickering  candle-light.  "  Aren't  you  Stan- 
dish  Burton's  wife? " 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  well" — she  shrugged — "you're  her  sort,  and 
it'll  come  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end." 

She  slouched  back  to  the  corner,  all  anger  gone  from 
her.  Outside  I  heard  Dick's  voice,  low,  decisive. 
Swiftly  I  followed  the  girl.  "  You  must  tell  me,"  I 
pleaded  with  her,  "  if  she  did  it  because  of  Standish 
Burton." 

"  I  thought  everybody  knew  that,"  she  said,  "  even  his 
wife.     What's  it  to  you,  if  you're  not  that?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied,  but  I  knew,  as  I  stood  where  she 
kept  vigil  with  Bessie  Lowe,  that  I  lied.  For  I  saw  the 
truth  in  a  lightning-flash ;  and  I  knew,  as  I  had  not  known 
when  Dick  perjured  himself  in  Leila's  music-room,  that 
I  had  come  to  the  place  of  ultimate  understanding,  for 
I  realized  that  not  a  dead  girl,  but  a  living  woman,  had 
come  between  us.  Not  Bessie  Lowe,  but  Leila  Burton, 
lifted  the  sword  at  the  gateway  of  my  paradise. 

With  the  poignancy  of  a  poisoned  arrow  reality  came 
to  me.  Because  Dick  had  loved  Leila  Burton  he  had  laid 
his  bond  with  me  on  the  altar  of  his  chivalry.  For  her 
sake  he  had  sacrificed  me  to  the  hurt  to  which  Standish 
would  not  sacrifice  her.  And  the  joke  of  it  —  the  pity  of 
it  was  that  she  hadn't  believed  them !  But  because  she 
was  Burton's  wife,  because  it  was  too  late  for  facing  of 
the  truth,  she  had  pretended  to  believe  Dick ;  and  she  had 
known,  she  must  have  known,  that  he  had  lied  to  her 
because  he  loved  her. 


482  NONE  SO  BLIND 

The  humiliation  of  that  knowledge  beat  down  on  me, 
battering  me  with  such  blows  as  I  had  not  felt  in  my 
belief  that  Dick  had  not  been  true  to  me  in  his  affair  with 
this  poor  girl.  Her  rivalry,  living  or  dead,  I  could  have 
endured  and  overcome  —  for  no  Bessie  Lowe  could  ever 
have  won  from  Dick,  as  she  could  never  have  given  to 
him,  that  thing  which  was  mine.  But  against  Leila  Bur- 
ton I  could  not  stand,  for  she  was  of  my  world,  of  my 
own  people,  and  the  crown  a  man  would  give  to  her  was 
the  one  he  must  take  from  me. 

There  in  that  shabby  place  I  buried  my  idols.  Not  I, 
but  a  power  beyond  me,  held  the  stone  on  which  was 
written  commandment  for  me.  By  the  light  of  the  can- 
dles above  Bessie  Lowe  I  knew  that  I  should  not  marry 
Dick  Allport. 

I  found  him  waiting  for  me  at  the  doorway.  I  think 
that  he  knew  then  that  the  light  of  our  guiding  lantern 
had  flickered  out,  but  he  said  nothing.  We  crossed  the 
garishly  bright  road  and  went  in  silence  through  quiet 
streets.  Like  children  afraid  of  the  dark  we  went 
through  the  strange  ways  of  the  city,  two  lonely  strag- 
glers from  the  procession  of  love,  who,  with  our  own 
dreams  ended,  saw  clearer  the  world's  wild  pursuit  of  the 
fleeing  vision. 

We  had  wandered  back  into  our  own  land  when,  in 
front  of  the  darkened  Oratory  and  almost  under  the 
shadow  of  Leila  Burton's  home,  there  came  to  us  through 
the  soft  darkness  the  ominous  plea  that  heralds  summer 
into  town.  Out  of  the  shadows  an  old  woman,  bent  and 
shriveled,  leaned  toward  us.  "  Get  yer  lavender  to- 
night," she  pleaded.     "  'Tis  the  first  of  the  crop,  m'lidy," 

"  That  means  — "  Dick  Allport  began  as  I  paused  to 
buy. 

I  fastened  the  sprigs  at  my  belt,  then  looked  up  at  the 
distant  stars,  since  I  could  not  yet  bear  to  look  at  him. 
"  It  means  the  end  of  the  season,"  I  said,  "  when  the 
lavender  comes  to  London." 


THE  YEARBOOK   OF  THE  AMERICAN 
SHORT  STORY   FOR   1917 


ADDRESSES    OF   AMERICAN   MAGA- 
ZINES PUBLISHING  SHORT  STORIES 

Note.  This  address  list  does  not  aim  to  he  complete,  hut  is 
based  simply  on  the  magazines  which  I  have  considered  for  this 
volume. 

Ainslee's  Magazine,  79  Seventh  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

All-Story  Weekly,  8  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City, 

American  Magazine,  381  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Art  World,  2  West  4Sth  Street,  New  York  City. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  3  Park  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 

Bellman,  118  South  6th  Street,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 

Black  Cat,  Salem,  Mass. 

Bookman,  443  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Boston  Evening  Transcript,  324  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 

Century  Magazine,  353  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Collier's  Weekly,  416  West  13th  Street,  New  York  City. 

Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  119  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City. 

Delineator,  Spring  and  Macdougal  Streets,  New  York  City. 

Detective  Story  Magazine,  79  Seventh  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Everybody's  Magazine,  Spring  and  Macdougal  Streets,  New  York 

City. 
Every  Week,  381  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Forum,  286  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Good  Housekeeping,  1 19  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Harper's  Bazar,  119  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City, 
Harper's  Magazine,  Franklin  Square,  New  York  City. 
Hearst's  Magazine,  119  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Illustrated  Sunday  Magazine,  193  Main  Street,  Buffalo,  N.  Y. 
Ladies'  Home  Journal.  Independence  Square,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Live  Stories,  35  West  39th  Street,  New  York  City. 
McCall's  Magazine,  236  West  37th  Street,  New  York  City. 
McClure's  Magazine,  251  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 


486  THE   YEARBOOK 

Metropolitan  Magazine,  432  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Midland,  Moorhead,  Minn. 

Milestones,  Akron,  Ohio. 

Munsey's  Magazine,  8  West  40th  Street,  New  York  City. 

Outlook,  381  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Pagan,  174  Centre  Street,  New  York  City. 

Parisienne,  Printing  Crafts  Building,  461   Eighth  Avenue,  New 

York  City. 
Pearson's  Magazine,  34  Union  Square,  New  York  City. 
Pictorial  Review,  216  West  39th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Queen's  Work,  3200  Russell  Avenue,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 
Reedy's  Mirror,  Syndicate  Trust  Building,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  Independence  Square,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Scribner's  Magazine,  597  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Short  Stories,  Garden  City,  Long  Island,  N.  Y. 
Smart  Set,  Printing  Crafts  Building,  New  York  City. 
Snappy  Stories,  35  West  39th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Southern    Woman's    Magazine,    American    Building,    Nashville, 

Tenn. 
Stratford  Journal,  32  Oliver  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 
Sunset  Magazine,  460  Fourth  Street,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 
To-day's  Housewife,  461  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Top-Notch  Magazine,  79  Seventh  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Touchstone,  118  East  30th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Woman's  Home  Companion,  381  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Woman's  World,  107  So.  Clinton  Street,  Chicago,  111. 
Youth's  Companion,  St.  Paul  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  ROLL  OF 

HONOR  OF  AMERICAN  SHORT 

STORIES   FOR   1917 

Note.  Only  stories  by  American  authors  are  listed.  The  best 
sixty-three  stories  are  indicated  by  an  asterisk  before  the  title  of 
the  story.  The  index  figures  i,  2,  and  3  prefixed  to  the  name  of  the 
author  indicate  that  his  zvork  has  been  included  in  the  Rolls  of 
Honor  for  1914,  1915,  and  1916  respectively. 

"  Amid,  John."  (M.  M.  Stearns.)  Born  at  West  Hartford,  Conn., 
1884.  Lived  in  New  England  at  Hartford,  South  Dartmouth, 
Mass.,  and  Randolph,  N.  H.,  until  IQ03,  with  the  exception  of 
two  years  abroad.  Threatened  with  blindness  when  fifteen 
years  old,  and  gave  up  school  work,  but  later  resumed  studies, 
graduating  from  Stanford  University,  1906.  Has  been  active  in 
newspaper  work  in  Los  Angeles.  Has  since  developed  water, 
broken  horses,  and  set  out  lemon  trees.  Married.  Three  chil- 
dren. Good  mechanic.  Musical.  Fond  of  boating  and  chess. 
Authority  on  turkey  raising.  At  present  associate  scenario 
editor  of  the  American  Film  Company,  Santa  Barbara,  Cal. 
Professor,  A. 

<3)Anderson,  Sherwood.  Born  in  Camden,  Ohio.  Primary  school 
education.  Newsboy  until  he  became  strong  enough  to  work; 
then  a  day  laborer.  With  American  army  in  Cuban  campaign. 
Studied  for  a  few  months  at  college,  Springfield,  Ohio.  Now 
an  advertising  writer.  Author  of  "  Windy  McPherson's  Son  " 
and  "  Marching  Men."  Has  three  novels,  three  books  of  short 
stories,  and  book  of  songs  unpublished.  First  short  story  pub- 
lished, "  The  Rabbit-pen,"  Harper's  Magazine,  July,  1914.  Lives 
in  Chicago. 

"  Mother." 
Thinker,  The. 
Untold  Lie,  The. 

<3) Andrews,  Mary  Raymond  Shipman.  Born  at  Mobile,  Ala. 
While  still  a  baby,  moved  with  her  parents  to  Lexington,  Ky., 
where  she  lived  until  about  1880.     Married  W.   S.  Andrews. 


488  THE   YEARBOOK 

1884,  now  Justice  Supreme  Court  of  New  York.  Chief  inter- 
ests: horseback  riding,  shooting,  and  fishing.  Author  of  "The 
Marshal,"  "  The  Enchanted  Forest,"  "  The  Three  Things," 
"  The  Good  Samaritan,"  "  The  Perfect  Tribute,"  "'  Bob  and  the 
Guides,"  "The  Militants,"  "The  Eternal  Feminine,"  "The  Eter- 
nal Masculine,"  "  The  Courage  of  the  Commonplace,"  "  The 
Lifted  Bandage,"  "  Counsel  Assigned,"  "  Better  Treasure,"  and 
'■  Old  Glory."  First  short  story,  "  Crowned  with  Glory  and 
Honor,"  Scribner's  Magazine,  February,  1902.  Resides  in  Syra- 
cuse, N.  Y. 

Blood  Brothers. 

Return  of  K.  of  K.,  The. 

'3)Babcock,  Edwina  Stanton.  Born  at  Nyack,  N.  Y.  One  of 
eleven  children.  Academic  experience  up  to  age  of  twenty- 
three,  one  year  in  private  school.  Attended  extension  classes  in 
English,  Teachers'  College,  Columbia  University.  Author 
"Greek  Wayfarers,"  a  volume  of  verse.  First  short  story,  "The 
Diary  of  a  Cat,"  Harper's  Magazine,  August,  1904.  Her  deep- 
est enthusiasms  are  children,  the  mountains  of  Greece,  the 
French  Theatre,  and  the  Irish  imagination.  She  lives  at  Nyack. 
N.  Y.,  and  Nantucket,  Mass 

*Excursion,  The. 

Barnard,  Floy  Tolbert.  Born  in  Hunter,  Ohio,  1879.  High 
school  education  in  Perry,  Iowa.  Married  Dr.  Leslie  O.  Bar- 
nard, 1902.  Went  West,  1905.  Descendant  of  Rouget  de  Lisle, 
author  of  the  "  Marseillaise,"  through  her  mother.  Her  great- 
grandfather dropped  the  "  de  "  to  please  a  Quaker  girl,  who 
would  not  otherwise  marry  him,  so  opposed  was  she  to  the 
French,  and  to  a  name  so  associated  with  war.  Her  first  story, 
"  —  Nor  the  Smell  of  Fire,"  appeared  in  Young's  Magazine 
February,  1915.    Lives  in  Seattle,  Wash. 

Surprise  in  Perspective,  A. 

Beer,  Thomas.  Born  in  1889.  Council  Bluffs,  Iowa.  Educated  at 
MacKenzie  School,  Dobbs  Ferry,  N.  Y.,  Yale  College  (1911), 
Columbia  Law  School.  Now  in  National  army.  First  story, 
"The  Brothers,"  Century,  February,  1917.  Chief  interest:  the 
theatre.    Lives  at  Yonkers,  N.  Y. 

^Brothers,  The. 
*Onnie. 

(3)BoTTOME,  Phyllis.     Born  of  American  parents.     Now  resi- 
dent in  England.     Author  of  "  The  Derelict,"  "  The   Second 
Fiddle,"  and  "  The  Dark  Tower." 
♦Ironstone. 


ROLL   OF   HONOR    FOR    1917  489 

"  Breck,  John."     (Elizabeth  C.  A.  Smith.)     Lives  in  Grosse 
Isle,  Mich. 
*From  Hungary. 

(3) Brooks,  Alden.     Author  of  "The  Fighting  Men."    Lives  in 
Paris.    Now  in  the  American  army  in  France. 
Three  Slavs,  The. 

(23)  Brown,  Alice.  Born  at  Hampton  Falls,  N.  H.,  .1857.  Gradu- 
uated  from  Robinson  Seminary,  Exeter,  N.  H.,  1876.  Author 
"  F"ools  of  Nature,"  "  Meadow-Grass,"  "  The  Road  to  Castaly," 
"  The  Day  of  His  Youth,"  "  Tiverton  Tales,"  "  King's  End," 
"  Margaret  Warrener,"  "  The  Mannerings,"  "  High  Noon," 
"  Paradise,"  "  The  County  Road,"  "  The  Court  of  Love,"  "Rose 
MacLeod,"  "  The  Story  of  Thyrza,"  "  Country  Neighbors," 
"John  Winterbourne's  Family,"  "The  One-Footed  Fairy,"  "The 
Secret  of  the  Clan,"  "Vanishing  Points,"  "Robin  Hood's  Barn," 
"  My  Love  and  I,"  "  Children  of  Earth,"  "  The  Prisoner," 
"  Bromley  Neighbourhood,"  and  other  books.  Lives  in  Boston. 
*Flying  Teuton,  The. 
Nemesis. 

(1)  Burt,  Maxwell  Struthers.   Born  in  Philadelphia,  1882.   Edu- 
cated at  Princeton,  1904,  and  at  Merton  College,  Oxford.    Au- 
thor of  "  In  the  High  Hills."  Instructor  of  English  at  Princeton 
for  two  years.     Then   went  West,   settling  in  Jackson   Hole, 
Wyo.,  where  he  is  senior  partner  of  a  cattle  ranch.    He  is  now 
in  the  Signal  Corps,  Aviation  Section,  U.  S.  Army.    First  story, 
"  The  Water-Hole,"  Scribner's  Magazine,  July,  1915  (reprinted 
in  "  The  Best  Short  Stories  of  1915  "). 
♦Closed  Doors. 
*Cup  of  Tea,  A. 
Glory  of  the  Wild  Green  Earth,  The. 
John  O'May. 
Le  Panache. 

(13)BuzzELL,  Francis.  Born  in  Romeo,  Mich.,  1882.  His  father 
was  editor  of  the  Romeo  Hydrant,  which  Mr.  Buzzell  mentions 
in  his  Almont  stories  as  the  "  Almont  Hydrant."  Moved  when 
he  was  seven  years  old  to  Port  Huron,  Mich.  Backward  stu- 
dent. Educated  in  private  school,  and  one  year  in  Port  Huron 
High  School  and  Business  College.  Worked  in  railroad  yards, 
and  at  age  of  nineteen  as  reporter  on  Port  Huron  Herald,  At 
twenty-one  becahie  Chicago  newspaper  reporter,  and  later,  as- 
sociate editor.  Popular  Mechanics.  In  1912  began  literary 
career  by  publishing  two  poems  in  Poetry.  Went  to  New  York 
determined   to  become   a   great   poet,   and   stayed   there   nine 


490  THE   YEARBOOK 

months.  Married  Miriam  Kiper  and  returned  to  Chicago.  Now 
a  chief  petty  officer,  U.  S.  N..  and  associate  editor  of  Great 
Lakes  Recruit.    Lives  in  Lake  Bluff,  111. 

♦Lonely  Places. 
♦Long  Vacation,  The. 

(3)  Campbell,  Fleta.  {See  Roll  of  Honor  for  igi6  under  Springer, 
Fleta  Campbell.)  Born  in  Newton,  Kan.,  1886,  moved  to 
Oklahoma,  1889.  Educated  in  common  schools  of  the  frontier, 
no  high  school,  and  a  year  and  a  half  preparatory  school,  Uni- 
versity of  Oklahoma.  Lived  in  Texas  and  California.  First 
ston,',  "  Solitude,"  Harper's  Magazine,  March,  1912.  Lives  in 
New  York  City. 
♦Mistress,  The. 

Cederschiold,  Gunnar. 
♦Foundling,  The. 

Chamberlain.  George  Agnew.  Born  of  American  parents,  Sao 
Paulo,  Brazil,  1879.  Educated  Lawrenceville  School,  N.  J.,  and 
Princeton.  Unmarried.  In  consular  service  since  1904.  Now 
American  Consul  at  Lourengo  Marquez,  Portuguese  East 
Africa. 
Man  Who  Went  Back,  The. 

Cleghorn,  Sarah  Norcliffe.  Born  at  Norfolk,  Va.,  1876.  Edu- 
'  cated  at  Burr  and  Burton  Seminary,  Manchester,  Vt.,  an  old 
country  co-educational  school;  and  one  year  at  Radcliffe. 
Writer  and  tutor  by  profession.  Chief  interests  are  anti- 
vivisection,  socialism,  and  above  all,  pacifism  of  the  "  extreme  " 
kind.  She  likes  best  of  everything  in  the  world  to  go  on  a 
picnic  with  plenty  of  children.  First  short  story,  "  The  Mellen 
Idolatry,"  Delineator,  about  1900.  Author  of  "  A  Turnpike 
Lady,"  "  The  Spinster,"  "  Fellow  Captains "  (with  Dorothy 
Canfield),  and  "  Portraits  and  Protests."  Lives  in  Manches- 
ter, Vt. 
"  Mr.  Charles  Raleigh  Rawdon,  Ma'am." 

(23)  Cobb,  Irvin  Shrewsbltry.  Born  at  Paducah,  Ky.,  1876.  Edu- 
cation limited  to  attendance  of  public  and  private  schools  up  to 
age  of  sixteen.  Reporter  and  cartoonist  for  several  years ;  maga- 
zine contributor  since  1910.  Chief  interests,  outdoor  life  and 
travel.  First  short  story,  "  The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm,"  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  November,  1910.  Author  of  "  Back  Home," 
"  Cobb's  Anatomy,"  "  The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm,"  "  Cobb's  Bill 
of  Fare,"  "  Roughing  It  de  Luxe,"  "  Europe  Revised,"  "  Paths 
of  Glory,"  "  Speaking  of  Operations,"  "  Local  Color,"  "  Fibble, 
D.D.,"  "  Old  Judge  Priest,"  "  Speaking  of  Prussians,"  "  Those 


ROLL   OF   HONOR    FOR    1917  491 

Times  and  These,"  and  "  'Twixt  the  Bluff  and  the   Sound." 
Lives  within  commuting  distance  of  New  York  City. 

*Boys  Will  Be  Boys. 
Cinnamon  Seed  and  Sandy  Bottom. 

♦Family  Tree,  The. 

♦Quality  Folks. 

<  3) Connolly,  James  Brendan.  Born  at  South  Boston,  Mass. 
Education,  parochial  and  public  schools  of  Boston  and  a  few 
months  in  Harvard.  Married  Elizabeth  F.  Hurley,  1904.  Clerk, 
inspector,  and  surveyor  with  U.  S.  Engineering  Corps,  Savannah, 
1892-95.  Won  first  Olympic  championship  of  modern  times  at 
Athens,  1896.  Served  in  Cuban  campaign  and  in  U.  S.  Navy, 
1907-08.  Progressive  candidate  for  Congress,  1912.  Member 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters.  Author  "  Jeb  Hutton," 
"  Out  of  Gloucester,"  "  The  Seiners,"  "  The  Deep  Sea's  Toll," 
"  The  Crested  Seas,"  "  An  Olympic  Victor,"  "  Open  Water," 
"  Wide  Courses,"  "  Sonnie^  Boy's  People,"  "  The  Trawler," 
"  Head  Winds,"  and  "  Running  Free."  Lives  in  Boston. 
Breath  o'  Dawn. 

(2)CowDERY,  Alice.    Born  in  San  Francisco.    Graduate  of  Leland 
Stanford  University.    First  short  story,  "  Gallant  Age,"  Harp- 
er's Magazine,  September,  1914.    Lives  in  California. 
Robert. 

Crabbe,  Bertha  Helen.  Born  in  1887  in  Coxsackie,  N.  Y.  Her 
father  moved  his  family  to  Rockaway  Beach,  L.  L,  in  1888, 
when  it  was  little  more  than  an  isolated  fishing-station.  It  was 
her  good  fortune  to  live  among  the  novel  conditions  attending 
the  rapid  growth  of  this  pioneer  village,  and  to  be  surrounded 
by  those  interesting  and  widely  varying  types  of  people  who 
are  drawn  to  a  city-in-the-making.  Educated  in  public  schools 
of  the  Rockaways.  and  at  a  boarding  school  in  Tarrytown, 
N.  Y.  Student  of  painting.  First  story  published  in  1913  in  a 
magazine  of  the  Munsey  group.  Lives  in  Far  Rockaway. 
Once  in  a  Lifetime. 

DoBiE,  Charles  Caldwell.    Born  in  San  Francisco,  1881.    Edu- 
cation;  grammar   school   and   seventeen   years'   supplementary 
schooling  in  University  of  Hard   Knocks.     In   fire  insurance 
business  for  nearly  twenty  years.    First  story,  "  An  Invasion," 
San  Francisco  Argonaut,  Oct.  8,  1910.    Gave  up  business,  1916, 
to  devote  himself  to  literature.    Lives  in  San  Francisco. 
Empty  Pistol.  The. 
Gifts,  The. 
♦Laughter. 
♦Our  Dog. 


492  THE   YEARBOOK 

Dodge,  Mabel. 
Farmhands. 

(23) Duncan,  Norman.  Born  at  Brantford,  Ont.,  1871.  Educated 
University  of  Toronto.  On  staff  New  York  Evening  Post, 
1897-01 ;  professor  rhetoric,  Washington  and  Jefferson  College, 
1902-06;  adjunct  professor  English  literature,  University  of 
Kansas,  1908-10.  Travelled  widely  in  Newfoundland,  Labrador, 
Asia,  and  Australasia.  Died  1916.  Author :  "  The  Soul  of  the 
Street,"  "  The  Way  of  the  Sea,"  "  Dr.  Luke  of  the  Labrador," 
"  Dr.  Grenfell's  Parish,"  "  The  Mother,"  "  The  Adventures  of 
Billy  Topsail,"  "The  Cruise  of  the  Shining  Light,"  "Every  Man 
for  Himself,"  "  Going  Down  from  Jerusalem,"  "  The  Suitable 
Child,"  "  Higgins,"  "  Billy  Topsail  &  Company,"  "  The  Measure 
of  a  Man,"  "  The  Best  of  a  Bad  Job,"  "  A  God  in  Israel,"  "  The 
Bird-Store  Man,"  "  Australian  Byways,"  and  "  Billy  Topsail, 
M.D." 

*Little  Nipper  of  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor,  A. 

(13)DwiGHT,  H.  G.  Born  in  Constantinople,  1875.  Educated  at 
St.  Johnsbury  Academy,  St.  Johnsbury,  Vt.,  and  Amherst  Col- 
lege. Chief  interests :  gardening  and  sailing.  He  remembers 
neither  the  title  nor  the  date  of  his  first  published  story.  This 
because  he  was  his  own  first  editor  and  publisher.  "  First  real 
story,"  "  The  Bathers."  Scribner's  Magazine,  December,  1903. 
Author  of  "  Constantinople,"  "  Stamboul  Nights,"  and  "  Per- 
sian Miniatures."  Lives  in  Roselle,  N.  J.  Is  now  an  army  field 
clerk  in  France. 

*Emperor  of  Elam,  The. 

Ferber,^  Edna.  Born  in  Kalamazoo,  Mich..  1887.  Educated  in 
public  and  high  schools,  Appleton,  Wis.  Began  as  reporter  on 
Appleton  Daily  Crescent  at  seventeen.  Employed  on  Milwau- 
kee Journal  and  Chicago  Tribune;  contributor  to  magazines 
since  1910.  First  short  story,  "  The  Homely  Heroine,"  Every- 
body's Magazine,  November,  1910.  Jewish  religion.  Author 
of  "Dawn  O'Hara,"  "  Buttered  Side  Down,"  "  Roast  Beef  Me- 
dium," "  Personality  Plus,"  "  Emma  McChesney  &  Co.,"  and 
"  Fanny  Herself."  Co-author  with  George  V.  Hobart  of  "'  Our 
Mrs.  McChesney."    Lives  in  New  York  City. 

*Gay  Old  Dog,  The. 

FoLsoM,  Elizabeth  Irons.  Born  at  Peoria,  111.,  1876.  Grand- 
father and  father  were  both  writers.  For  a  number  of  years 
member  of  editorial  staff  of  The  Pantagraph  at  Bloomington, 
111.,  doing  the  court  work  there  and  reading  law  at  the  same 
time.     Left   newspaper   in    IQ16  to   devote   herself   to   fiction. 


ROLL   OF   HONOR   FOR    1917  493 

First  short  story,  "  The  Scheming  of  Letitia,"  Munsey's  Maga- 
zine, April,  1914.  Lives  in  New  York  City. 
Kamerad. 
Frank,  Waldo.  Born  in  i8qo.  Long  Branch,  N.  J.  Educated  in 
New  York  public  schools  and  at  Yale.  (B.A.,  M.A.,  and  Hono- 
rary Fellowship.)  While  still  at  college,  wrote  regular  signed 
column  of  dramatic  criticism  in  New  Haven  Journal-Courier. 
Two  years'  newspaper  work  in  New  York.  Went  to  Europe, 
devoting  himself  to  study  of  French  and  German  theater.  One 
of  the  founders  and  associate  editor  of  the  Seven  Arts  Maga- 
zine. Chief  interests:  fiction,  drama,- criticism  of  American 
literary  standards,  and  strengthening  of  relations  between 
America  and  contemporary  European  (non-English)  cultures. 
First  story,  "The  Fruit  of  Misadventure,"  Smart  Set,  July,  1915. 
Author  of  "  The  Unwelcome  Man."  Lives  in  New  York  City. 
*Bread-Crumbs. 

Candles  of  Romance,  The. 

Rudd. 
(123)  Freeman,  Mary  E.  Wilkins.  Born  at  Randolph,  Mass., 
1862.  Educated  at  Randolph  and  Mt.  Holyoke.  Married  Dr. 
Charles  M.  Freeman,  1902.  Author  of  "  A  Humble  Romance," 
"  A  New  England  Nun,"  "  Young  Lucretia,"  "  Jane  Field," 
"  Giles  Corey,"  "  Pembroke,"  "  Madelon,"  "  Jerome,"  "  Silence," 
"Evehna's  Garden,"  "The  Love  of  Parson  Lord,"  "The  Heart's 
Highway,"  "  The  Portion  of  Labor,"  "  Understudies,"  "  Six 
Trees,"  "  The  Wind  In  the  Rose  Bush,"  "  The  Givers,"  "  Doc 
Gordon,"  "  By  the  Light  of  the  Soul,"  "  Shoulders  of  Atlas," 
"  The  Winning  Lady,"  "  Green  Door,"  "  Butterfly  House,"  "  The 
Yates  Pride,"  "  Copy-Cat,"  and  other  books.  Lives  in  Me- 
tuchen,  N.  J. 

Boomerang,  The. 

Cloak  Also,  The. 

Ring  with  the  Green  Stone,  The. 
Geer,  Cornelia  Throop,  is  an  instructor  in  Bryn  Mawr  College. 

♦Pearls  Before  Swine. 
(123)Gerould,  Katharine  Fullerton.  Born  in  Brockton,  Mass., 
1879.  Graduate  of  Radcliffe  College.  Married,  1910.  Reader 
in  English,  Bryn  Mawr,  1901-10.  Author :  "  Vain  Oblations," 
"  The  Great  Tradition,"  "  Hawaii,"  and  "  A  Change  of  Air." 
Lives  in  New  Jersey. 

*East  of  Eden. 

♦Hand  of  Jim  Fane,  The. 

♦Knight's  Move,  The. 

♦Wax  Doll,  The. 

♦What  They  Seem. 


494  THE   YEARBOOK 

Glasgow,  Ellen.  Born  in  Richmond,  Va.,  1874.  Educated  at 
home,  but  this  has  been  supplemented  by  a  wide  range  of  read- 
ing, and  travel  both  abroad  and  in  this  country.  Her  first 
short  story  was  "  A  Point  in  Morals,"  Harper's  Magazine, 
about  1897.  Author  of  "  The  Descendant,"  "  Some  Phases  of 
an  Inferior  Planet,"  "  The  Voice  of  the  People,"  "  The  Free- 
man and  Other  Poems,"  "  The  Battleground,"  "  The  Deliver- 
ance," "  The  Wheel  of  Life,"  "  The  Ancient  Law,"  "  The 
Romance  of  a  Plain  Man,"  "  The  Miller  of  Old  Church,"  "  Vir- 
ginia," "  Life  and  Gabriella."    She  lives  in  Richmond,  Va. 

*Dare's  Gift. 

Glaspell,  Susan.  (Mrs.  George  Cram  Cook.)  Bom  in  Daven- 
port, Iowa,  1882.  Graduate  Drake  University.  Reporter  in 
Des  Moines  for  several  years.  The  idea  for  "  A  Jury  of  Her 
Peers  "  came  from  a  murder  trial  which  she  reported.  Chief 
interest :  the  little  theater.  Associated  with  the  Provincetown 
Players.  Married  George  Cram  Cook,  1913.  First  story,  "  In 
the  Face  of  His  Constituents,"  Harper's  Magazine,  October, 
1903.  Author  of  "  The  Glory  of  the  Conquered,"  "  The  Vision- 
ing,"  "  Lifted  Masks,"  "  Fidelity,"  several  one-act  plays : 
"  Trifles,"  "  Suppressed  Desires  "  (in  collaboration  with  George 
Cram  Cook),  "The  People,"  and  "Close  the  Book."  Lives  in 
Provincetown  and  New  York  City. 

♦Hearing  Ear,  The. 
*Jury  of  Her  Peers,  A. 
Matter  of  Gesture,  A. 

(IS) Gordon,  Armistead  Churchill.  Bom  in  Albemarle  County, 
Va.,  1855.  Educated  at  classical  academy  in  Warrenton,  N.  C, 
and  Charlottesville,  Va.,  and  at  University  of  Virginia.  Lawyer 
in  Staunton,  Va.,  since  1879.  First  story,  "  Envion,"  South  At- 
lantic Magazine,  July,  1880.  Of  this  story  his  friend,  Thomas 
Nelson  Page,  wrote  in  a  preface  to  a  volume  of  Mr.  Gordon's 
stories,  printed  in  1899,  but  never  published,  entitled  "  Envion 
and  Other  Tales  of  Old  and  New  Virginia  ":  "  To  one  of  these 
sketches  the  writer  is  personally  indebted  for  the  idea  of  a 
tragic  love  affair  during  the  war,  an  idea  which  he  employed  in 
his  story  '  Marse  Chan,'  and  also  for  the  method  which  he 
adopted  of  telling  the  story  through  the  medium  of  a  faithful 
servant."  Author  of  "Befo'  de  War:  Echoes  in  Negro  Dialect" 
(with  Thomas  Nelson  Page),  "  Congressional  Currency,"  "  For 
Truth  and  Freedom :  Poems  of  Commemoration,"  "  The  Gay 
Gordons,"  "  The  Gift  of  the  Morning  Star,"  "  The  Ivory  Gate," 
"  Robin  Aroon :  A  Comedy  of  Manners,"  "  William  Fitzhugh 
Gordon,  a  Virginian  of  the  Old  School,"  "  J.  L.  M.  Curry " 


ROLL   OF  HONOR   FOR    1917  495 

(with  E.  A.  Alderman),  "  Maje,  a  Love  Story,"  and  "  Ommi- 
randy."    Lives  in  Staunton,  Va. 
♦His  Father's  Flag. 

(3)  Greene,  Frederick  Stuart.  Born  in  Rappahannock  County, 
Va.,  1870.  Graduated  from  Virginia  Military  Institute,  1890. 
Civil  engineer  until  May  14,  1917.  Now  commanding  officer  of 
Company  "  B,"  302d  Engineers,  National  Army,  Camp  Upton, 
N.  Y.  His  chief  interests  are  to  see  this  war  to  a  successful 
conclusion,  and  to  devote  himself  thereafter  to  writing.  First 
story,  "  Stictuit,"  Saturday  Evening  Post,  April  5,  1913.  Editor 
of  "  The  Grim  13."    Lives  on  Long  Island,  N.  Y. 

♦Bunker  Mouse,  The. 

♦"Molly  McGuire,  Fourteen." 

'3)Hallet,  Richard  Matthews.    Born  in  Yarmouthport,  Mass. 
Author  of  "  The  Lady  Aft  "  and  "  Trial  By  Fire." 
♦Rainbow  Fete. 

Harris,  Corra  May,  Born  at  Farm  Hill,  Ga,  i86g.  Married 
Rev.  Lundy  Howard  Harris,  1887.  Methodist.  Began  writing 
for  the  Independent,  1899.  Author :  "  The  Jessica  Letters  " 
(with  Paul  Elmer  More),  "A  Circuit  Rider's  Wife,"  "Eve's 
Second  Husband,"  "  The  Recording  Angel,"  "  In  Search  of  a 
Husband,"  and  "  Co-Citizens."  Lives  in  Rydal,  Ga. 
Other  Soldiers  in  France,  The. 

Hartman,  Lee  Foster.  Born  in  Fort  Wayne,  Ind.,  1879.  Gradu- 
ate of  Wesleyan  University.  Engaged  in  newspaper  and  maga- 
zine work  in  New  York  City  since  1901.  Now  assistant  editor 
of  Harper's  Magazine.  First  story,  "  My  Lady's  Bracelet," 
Munsey's  Magazine,  October,  1904.  Author  of  "  The  White 
Sapphire."  Lives  in  New  York  City. 
♦Frazee. 

Hemenway,  Hetty  Lawrence.  (Mrs.  Auguste  Richard.)  Born 
in  Boston,  1890.  Educated  in  private  schools  in  her  home  city. 
She  has  always  been  fond  of  outdoor  life  and  devoted  to  ani- 
mals, especially  dogs  and  horses.  Married  Lieut.  Auguste 
Richard,  191 7.  First  story,  "  Four  Days,"  Atlantic  Monthly. 
May,  1917,  since  reprinted  in  book  form. 
♦Four  Days. 

Hunt,  Edward  Eyre.    Graduate  of  Harvard.    Associated  with 
American  Relief  Commission  in  Belgium.    Author  of  "War- 
Bread." 
Ghosts. 
Saint  Dympna'fi  Miracle. 


496 


THE   YEARBOOK 


(23)  Hurst,  Fannie.  Born  in  Hamilton,  Ohio,  1889,  but  spent  the 
first  nineteen  years  of  her  life  in  St.  Louis,  Mo.  An  only  child, 
and  consequently  forced  into  much  solitude  and  a  precocious 
amount  of  reading.  Educated  at  home  and  in  public  schools  of 
St.  Louis.  Graduate  of  Washington  University.  Two  years' 
graduate  work  at  Columbia.  After  vacillating  between  writing 
and  the  stage,  the  pen  finally  conquered,  and  between  1909  and 
1912  just  thirty-three  manuscripts  were  submitted  to  and  re- 
jected by  one  publication  alone,  —  a  publication  which  later 
came  to  feature  her  work.  First  short  story  published  in 
Reedy 's  Mirror,  iQog;  second  story  in  Smith's  Magazine,  1912. 
Lives  in  New  York  City.  Active  in  women's  suffrage,  tennis, 
and  single  tax ;  but  her  chief  interest  is  her  writing,  her  work- 
day being  six  hours  long.  Has  made  personal  studies  of  the 
life  she  interprets,  having  at  various  times  apprenticed  herself 
as  waitress,  saleswoman,  and  factory-girl.  Author  of  "Just 
Around  the  Corner,"  "  Every  Soul  Hath  Its  Song,"  "  Gaslight 
Sonatas." 

*Get  Ready  the  Wreaths. 
Solitary  Reaper. 

Hutchison,  Percy  Adams.    Graduate  of,  and  for  some  years  in- 
structor at.  Harvard  University. 
*Journey's  End. 

(3)joHNsoN,  Fanny  Kemble.  (Mrs.  Vincent  Costello.)  Born 
in  Rockbridge  County,  Va.,  and  educated  in  private  schools. 
Moved  to  Charleston,  W.  Va.,  1897.  Married  Vincent  Costello. 
1899.  Has  lived  in  Wheeling,  W.  Va.,  since  1907.  Her  chief 
interests  are  her  four  children,  her  writing,  and  contemporary 
history  as  it  is  made  from  day  to  day.  "  The  Pathway  Round," 
Atlantic  Monthly,  August,  1900,  marked  her  entrance  into  the 
professional  magazines.    Author  of  "  The  Beloved  Son." 

*Strange-Looking  Man,  The. 

Jones,  E.  Clement.    Born  in  Boston,  1890.    First  short  story  in 
verse,  "  Country  Breath  and  the  Ungoverned  Brother,"  London 
Nation,  191 1.    Contributor  to  The  New  Republic  and  The  Seven 
Arts.    Lives  in  Concord,  Mass. 
*Sea-Turn,  The. 

Kauffman,  Reginald  Wright.  Born  at  Columbia,  Pa.,  1877. 
Educated  at  St.  Paul's  School,  Concord,  and  at  Harvard.  Mar- 
ried, 1909.  In  newspaper  -work  since  1897.  Associate  editor 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  1904-07 ;  later  associate  editor  Delinea- 
tor, and  managing  editor  Hampton's  Magazine.  Author  of 
"Jarvis  of  Harvard,"  "The  Things. That. Are  Csesar's.".'!; The 


ROLL   OF   HONOR   FOR    1917  497 

Chasm,"  "  Miss  Frances  Baird,  Detective,"  "  The  Bachelor's 
Guide  to  Matrimony,"  "  What  is  Socialism  ?  ",  "  My  Heart  and 
Stephanie,"  "  The  House  of  Bondage,"  "  The  Girl  That  Goes 
Wrong,"  "  The  Way  of  Peace,"  "  The  Sentence  of  Silence," 
"The  Latter  Day  Saints"  (with  Ruth  Kauffman),  "Running 
Sands,"  "The  Spider's  Web,"  "Little  Old  Belgium,"  "In  a 
Moment  of  Time,"  "  Jim,"  and  "  The  Silver  Spoon."  Lives  in 
Columbia,  Pa. 

Lonely  House,  The. 

Kline,  Burton.  Born  at  Williamsport,  Pa.,  1877.  Educated  at 
Dickinson  Seminary,  Williamsport,  and  at  Harvard.  Married, 
1909.  Newspaper  man.  Magazine  editor  Boston  Transcript. 
Republican.  Lutheran.  Author  of  "  Struck  by  Lightning " 
and  "  The  End  of  the  Flight."    Lives  in  Arlington,  Mass. 

♦Caller  in  the  Night,  The. 

Krysto,  Christina.  Born  in  Batum.  Russia,  1887.  Her  early 
education  was  thoroughly  Russian.  She  was  taught  at  home 
and  given  unrestricted  freedom  in  a  really  fine  library.  Emi- 
grated to  California  when  nine  years  old.  Studied  at  Univer- 
sity of  California.  Now  engaged  in  ranch  work  and  the  en- 
deavor to  arrange  her  life  so  that  there  will  be  room  in  it  for 
writing.  "  Babanchik "  is  her  first  story.  She  lives  in  Alta 
Loma,  Cal. 
Babanchik. 

Lee,  Jennette.  Born  at  Bristol,  Conn.,  i860.  Attended  Bristol 
schools.  Began  teaching,  1876.  Graduated  from  Smith  College, 
1886.  First  story,  "  Bufiddle,"  published  in  the  Independent, 
1886.  Taught  English  at  Vassar,  Western  Reserve  College  for 
Women,  and  Smith  College.  Her  special  interest  is  relating 
education  to  life.  Resigned  professorship  in  English  at  Smith 
College,  1913.  Married  Gerald  Stanley  Lee,  1896.  Author  of 
"  Kate  Wetherell,"  "  A  Pillar  of  Salt,"  "  The  Son  of  a  Fiddler," 
"  Uncle  William,"  "  The  Ibsen  Secret,"  "  Simeon  Tetlow's 
Shadow,"  "  Happy  Island,"  "  Mr.  Achilles,"  "  The  Taste  of 
Apples,"  "  The  Woman  in  the  Alcove,"  "  Aunt  Jane,"  "  The 
Symphony  Play,"  "  Unfinished  Portraits,"  and  "  The  Green 
Jacket."    She  lives  in  Northampton,  Mass. 

John  Fairchild's  Mirror. 

Lewis,  Addison.  Born  in  Minneapolis,  1889.  Educated  in  public 
schools.  Graduated  from  University  of  Minnesota  in  1912. 
Regards  as  a  liberal  share  of  his  education  a  very  brief  circus 
career,  and  five  years  spent  as  assistant  managing  editor  of  The 
Bellman  and  the  Northwestern  Miller.     His  professions  are 


498  THE   YEARBOOK 

journalism  and  advertising;  is  bothered  mostly  with  the  neces- 
sity of  getting  the  nebulous  idea  for  a  story  on  paper,  fresh- 
water sailing,  and  the  problem  of  improving  his  game  of  golf. 
First  story,  "The  End  of  the  Lane,"  Reedy's  Mirror,  Feb.  2, 
1917.    He  lives  in  Minneapolis. 

*When  Did  You  Write  Your  Mother  Last? 

London.  Jack.  Born  at  San  Francisco,  1876.  Educated  at  Uni- 
versity of  California.  Married  Bessie  Maddern,  1900;  Charmian 
Kittredge,  1905.  Went  to  the  Klondike  instead  of  graduating 
from  college;  went  to  sea  before  the  mast;  traveled  as  a  tramp 
through  the  United  States  and  Canada ;  war  correspondent  dur- 
ing the  Russo-Japanese  War ;  and  navigated  his  yacht  "  Snark  " 
in  the  South  Seas,  1907-09.  Socialist.  Author  of  "  The  Son  of 
the  Wolf,"  "  The  God  of  His  Fathers,"  "  A  Daughter  of  the 
Snows,"  "  The  Children  of  the  Frost,"  "  The  Cruise  of  the 
Dazzler,"  "  The  People  of  the  Abyss,"  "  Kempton-Wace  Let- 
ters," "  The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  "  The  Faith  of  Men,"  "  The 
Sea  Wolf,"  "  The  Game,"  "  War  of  the  Classes,"  "  Tales  of  the 
Fish  Patrol,"  "  Moon-Face,"  "  Scorn  of  Women,"  "  White 
Fang,"  "  Before  Adam,"  "  Love  of  Life,"  "  The  Iron  Heel," 
"  The  Road,"  ''  Martin  Eden,"  "  Lost  Face,"  "  Revolution," 
"  Burning  Daylight,"  "  Theft,"  "  When  God  Laughs,"  "  Adven- 
ture," "  The  Cruise  of  the  Snark,"  "  South  Sea  Tales,"  "  Smoke 
Bellew  Tales,"  "  The  House  of  Pride,"  "  A  Son  of  the  Sun," 
"  The  Night-Born,"  "  The  Abysmal  Brute,"  "  John  Barley- 
corn," "  The  Valley  of  the  Moon,"  "  The  Strength  of  the 
Strong,"  "  The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore,"  "  The  Scarlet  Plague," 
"  The  Star  Rover,"  "  The  Little  Lady  of  the  Big  House," 
"  Jerry,"  and  "  Michael,  the  Brother  of  Jerry."  He  died  in 
1916. 

Like  Argus  of  the  Ancient  Time. 

(3)  Marshall,  Edison.  Born  in  Rensselaer,  Ind.  Moved  to  Med- 
ford,  Ore.,  in  1907.  Educated  at  University  of  Oregon.  In 
newspaper  work  till  1916.  Now  writing  for  the  magazines. 
Unmarried.  Chief  interests :  hunting  and  fishing.  His  first 
story  was,  "The  Sacred  Fire,"  Argosy,  April,  1915.  Age,  twenty- 
four.  Principal  ambition  is  to  get  to  France.  Lives  in  Med- 
ford.  Ore. 

Man  that  Was  in  Him,  The. 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee.  Born  at  Garnett,  Kan.,  1868.  Educated  at 
high  school  and  Knox  College.  Studied  law  in  his  father's  of- 
fice. Admitted  to  the  bar,  1891.  Married,  1898.  Democrat. 
Author  of  "  A  Book  of  Verses,"  "  Maximilian,"  "  The  New 
Star  Chamber  and  Other  Essays,"  "  Blood  of  the  Prophets," 


ROLL   OF   HONOR   FOR    1917  499 

"  Althea,"  "  The  Trifler,"  "  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  "  Songs 
and  Satires,"  and  "  The  Great  Valley."  His  first  story  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Peoria  Call  in  1886  or  1887,  and  in  1889  he  pub- 
lished several  short  stories  in  the  Waverly  Magazine.  Lives  in 
Chicago. 

Boyhood  Friends. 
*Widow  La  Rue. 

Morton,  Johnson. 
♦Understudy,  The. 

Nafe,  Gertrude.  Born  in  Grand  Island,  Neb.,  1883.  Graduate 
of  University  of  Colorado.  Teaches  English  in  East  Denver 
High  School,  Her  chief  interest  in  life  is  revolution.  Her 
first  contribution  was  "  The  Woman  Who  Stood  in  the  Market 
Place,"  published  in  Mother  Earth  in  February,  1914.  Lives  in 
Denver,  Colo. 

One  Hundred  Dollars. 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  Born  at  Crawfordsville,  Ind.,  1866.  Edu- 
cated in  Indianapolis  public  schools.  Married,  1896,  Member 
of  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters.  Author  of  "  Short 
Flights,"  "  The  Hoosiers,"  "  The  Main  Chance,"  "  Zelda  Dame- 
ron,"  "  The  House  of  a  Thousand  Candles,"  "  Poems,"  "  The 
Port  of  Missing  Men,"  "  Rosalind  at  Red  Gate,"  "  The  Little 
Brown  Jug  at  Kildare,"  "  The  Lords  of  High  Decision,"  "  The 
Siege  of  the  Seven  Suitors,"  "  The  Hoosier  Chronicle,"  "  The 
Provincial  American,"  "  Otherwise  Phyllis,"  "  The  Poet," 
"  The  Proof  of  the  Pudding,"  "  The  Madness  of  May,"  and 
"  A  Reversible  Santa  Claus." 

"*My  first  literary  tinklings  were  in  verse ;  you  will  note  two 
volumes  of  poems  in  my  list.  Finding  at  fifteen  that  the  schools 
within  my  reach  did  not  meet  my  requirements,  I  went  to  work 
and  began  educating  myself  along  lines  of  least  resistance.  My 
occupations  were  various :  worked  in  printing  offices,  learned 
shorthand,  became  stenographer  in  a  law  office;  was  in  news- 
paper work  for  twelve  years ;  at  thirty  was  auditor  and  treas- 
urer of  a  coal-mining  corporation  in  Colorado ;  after  three 
years  of  business  became  a  writer  of  books.  When  I  was  eigh- 
teen I  wrote  three  short  stories  which  were  published,  and 
after  that  wrote  no  fiction  till  I  was  thirty-two.  I  have  n't 
thought  of  it  before,  but  it  was  odd  that  I  wrote  no  short  stories 
and  had  no  interest  in  that  form  until  about  five  years  ago. 
Since  then  I  have  done  a  number  every  year.  Without  being 
a  politician,  I  have  dabbled  somewhat  in  political  matters,  mak- 
ing speeches  at  times,  and  abusing  my  fellow  partisans  (I  am  a 
Democrat)  when  they  needed  chastisement.     I  have  been  de- 


500  THE   YEARBOOK 

feated  for  nominations  and  have  declined  nominations,  and  I 
once  refused  a  foreign  appointment  of  considerable  dignity 
that  was  very  kindly  offered  me  by  a  President.  When  it  comes 
to  '  interests '  I  have,  I  suppose,  a  journalistic  mind.  Anything 
that  is  of  contemporaneous  human  interest  interests  me  —  even 
free  verse,  which  I  despise,  but  read."  Mr.  Nicholson  lives  in 
Indianapolis. 
♦Heart  of  Life,  The. 

Norton,  Roy.  Born  at  Kewanee,  111.,  1869.  High  school  educa- 
tion. Studied  law,  mining,  and  languages.  Married,  1894.  Prac- 
ticed law  at  Ogden,  1892.  In  newspaper  work  for  some  years. 
Democrat.  Roman  Catholic.  Mason.  Author  of  "  Guilty " 
(with  William  Hallowell),  "  The  Vanishing  Fleets,"  "  The  Toll 
of  the  Sea,"  "  Mary  Jane's  Pa,"  "  The  Garden  of  Fate,"  "  The 
Plunderer,"  "  Captains  Three,"  "  The  Mediator,"  "  The 
Moccasins  of  Gold,"  "  The  Boomers,"  and  "  The  Man  of  Peace." 
Lives  in  New  Jersey. 
Aunt  Seliny. 

(2)  O'Brien,  Seumas.  Born  at  Glenbrook,  County  Cork,  Ireland, 
April  26,  1880,  —  three  days  and  three  hundred  and  sixteen 
years  (?)  after  Mr.  William  Shakespeare  of  Stratford-on- 
Avon.  Education :  none  or  very  little,  and  less  German  than 
French.  Profession  :  pessimist.  Chief  interests :  Russian  Jew- 
esses and  American  dollars.  In  more  sober  truth,  education : 
Presentation  Brothers  Schools,  Cork  School  of  Art,  Cork 
School  of  Music,  Metropolitan  School  of  Art,  Dublin,  and 
Royal  College  of  Art,  London.  Profession :  sculptor  and  dram- 
atist. Chief  interests :  literature,  art,  and  music.  First  maga- 
zine to  publish  his  work,  The  Tatler.  Author  of  "  The  Whale 
and  the  Grasshopper,"  "  Duty,  and  Other  Irish  Comedies,"  and 
"  The  Knowledgeable  Man."  Lives  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
*Murder? 

O'HiGGiNS.  Harvey  J.  Born  in  London.  Ont..  1876.  Educated 
at  public  schools  and  Toronto  University.  In  newspaper  work 
from  1897  to  1902.  First  short  story,  "  Not  for  Publication,"  in 
Youth's  Companion,  March,  1902.  Chief  interests :  those  of  a 
publicist,  aiding  social  and  political  reforms.  Author  of  "  The 
Smoke  Eaters,"  "Don-a-Dreams,"  "A  Grand  Army  Man,"  "Old 
Clinkers,"  "  The  Beast  and  the  Jungle  "  (with  Judge  Ben  B. 
Lindsey),  "Under  the  Prophet  in  Utah"  (with  Frank  J.  Can- 
non), "The  Argyle  Case  "  (with  Harriet  Ford),  "The  Dummy," 
"Polygamy,"  "Silent  Sam"  (with  Harriet  Ford),  and  "Ad- 
ventures of  Detective  Barney."  He  lives  in  New  Jersey. 
From  the  Life:  Thomas  Wales  Warren. 


ROLL   OF    HONOR   FOR    1917  501 

(3)0'SuLLiVAN,  Vincent.  Born  in  New  York,  1872.  Graduate 
of  Oxford.  Author  of  "  The  Good  Girl,"  "Sentiment,"  "  Of 
Human  Affairs,"  and  many  other  books.  Lives  in  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y. 

♦Interval,  The. 

Pangborn,  Georgia  Wood.  Born  at  Malone,  N.  Y.,  1872.  Edu- 
cated at  Franklin  Academy,  Malone ;  Packer  Institute,  Brook- 
lyn, and  Smith  College.  Married,  i8g4.  First  short  story, 
"  The  Grek  Collie,"  Scribner's  Magazine,  July,  1903.  Author  of 
"  Roman  Biznet "  and  "  Interventions."  Lives  in  New  York 
City. 

♦Bixby's  Bridge. 

Perry,  Lawrence.  Born  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  1875.  Educated  in 
public  and  private  schools.  He  had  a  choice  between  college 
and  the  New  York  Sun  (Charles  A.  Dana,  then  editor)  as  a 
medium  of  higher  education.  Has  always  regarded  his  decision 
in  favor  of  the  Sun  as  wise,  considering  an  ambition  to  learn 
life  and  then  write  about  it.  On  staff  of  Sun  and  Evening  Sun, 
1897-1905.  Went  to  Evening  Post,  1906;  there  organized  and 
edited  "  Yachting  "  until  1909.  Has  since  concentrated  on  inter- 
collegiate sport  and  fiction.  His  first  story,  "  Joe  Lewis,"  in 
Frank  Leslie's  Popular  Monthly,  September,  1902.  Author  of 
"Dan  Merrithew,"  "Prince  or  Chauffeur,"  "Holton,"  and  "The 
Fullback."    Lives  in  New  York  City, 

*"  Certain  Rich  Man,  A.  —  " 

PoRTOR,  Laura  Spencer. 

Boy's  Mother,  The. 
Idealist,  The. 

Pottle,  Emery.  Is  a  poet  and  short-story  writer  of  distinction, 
now  with  the  Aviation  Corps  in  France,  specializing  in  Observa- 
tion Balloon  work. 

Breach  in  the  Wall,  The. 
♦Portrait,  The. 

Prouty,  Olive  Higgins.  Born  in  Worcester,  Mass.,  1882.  Edu- 
cated in  public  schools.  Graduated  from  Smith  College,  1904. 
Post-graduate  work  at  Simmons  College  and  Radcliffe.  Chief 
interests :  home  and  her  children's  development  and  education. 
Married  in  1907.  First  story,  "  When  Elise  Came,"  American 
Magazine,  April,  1909.  Author  of  "  Bobbie,  General  Manager," 
and  "  The  Fifth  Wheel."  Lives  in  Brookline,  Mass. 
New  England  War  Bride,  A. 


502  THE   YEARBOOK 

PuLVER,  Mary  Brecht.  Born  in  Mount  Joy,  Pa.,  1883.  Educated 
in  public  schools,  normal  school,  and  Philadelphia  School  of 
Applied  Art.  Married,  igo6.  Chief  interests :  music,  painting, 
and  literature.  Author  of  "  The  Spring  Lady."  Lives  in  Bing- 
hamton,  N.  Y. 
*Path  of  Glory,  The. 

Raisin,  Ovro'om,  is  a  distinguished  Yiddish  writer  of  fiction  now 
living  in  New  York  City. 
Ascetic,  The. 

Richardson,  Norval.  Born  at  Vicksburg,  Miss.,  1877.  Educated 
at  Lawrenceville  School,  N.  J.,  and  Southwestern  Presbyterian 
University.  Secretary  and  treasurer  Lee  Richardson  &  Com- 
pany. In  diplomatic  service  since  1909  at  Havana,  Copenhagen, 
and  Rome.  Author  of  "  The  Heart  of  Hope,"  "  The  Lead  of 
Honour,"  "  George  Thome,"  and  "  The  Honey  Pot."  Is  now 
connected  with  the  American  Embassy,  Rome,  Italy. 
*Miss  Fothergill. 

(23)  Rosenblatt,  Benjamin.  Born  on  New  Year's  Eve,  1880,  in 
a  tiny  Russian  village  named  Resoska.  When  he  was  ten,  his 
parents  brought  him  to  New  York,  where  he  was  set  to  work 
in  a  shop  at  once.  Later  he  sold  newspapers.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  his  first  story  in  Yiddish,  entitled  "  She  Laughed," 
appeared  in  Vorwarts.  At  that  time  he  studied  English  dili- 
gently, and  prepared  himself  for  college.  For  a  number  of 
years  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Jewish  press.  His 
first  English  story,  entitled  "  Free,"  appeared  in  The  Outlook, 
July  4,  1903.  After  leaving  the  normal  training  school  he 
taught  English  to  foreigners,  opening  a  preparatory  school. 
His  story  "  Zelig,"  in  my  opinion,  was  the  best  American  short 
story  in  1915.  He  is  now  attending  New  York  University,  and 
is  an  insurance  agent.  He  lives  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
Madonna,  The.  ^ 

Schneider,  Herman.  Born  at  Summit  Hill,  Pa.,  1872.  Gradu- 
ated from  Lehigh  University  in  science,  1894.  Now  Dean  of 
the  College  of  Engineering,  University  of  Cincinnati.  Profes- 
sion :  civil  engineer.  Chief  interests :  advancing  technical  edu- 
cation, promoting  scientific  research,  and  planning  methods  to 
give  free  outlook  to  the  creative  genius  of  the  country  in  sci- 
ence, art,  music,  literature,  and  every  other  phase  of  human 
endeavor.  Author  of  "  Education  for  Industrial  Workers." 
First  short  story,  "  Arthur  McQuaid,  American,"  Outlook, 
May  23,  191 7.  At  present,  living  in  Washington,  working  in 
the  Ordnance  Department  on  industrial  service  problems. 
Shaft  of  Light,  A. 


ROLL   OF   HONOR   FOR   1917  503 

Shepherd,  William  Gunn,  is  a  war  correspondent  in  Europe, 
who  was  with  Richard  Harding  Davis  at  Salonika  when  the  in- 
cident occurred  which  suggested  to  Davis  the  idea  for  his  short 
story,  "  The  Deserter." 

♦Scar  that  Tripled,  The. 

Showerman,  Grant.  Born  in  Brookfield,  Wis.,  1870,  of  Dutch 
and  English  stock,  his  grandfather,  Luther  Parker,  having  in 
1836  driven  the  entire  distance  from  Indian  Stream,  N.  H.,  to 
Wisconsin,  where  he  was  the  first  permanent  settler  in  his 
township.  Educated  in  Brookfield  district  school,  Carroll  College, 
and  University  of  Wisconsin.  Fellow  in  the  American  School 
of  Classical  Studies  at  Rome,  1898-1900.  Married,  1900.  Now 
professor  of  classics.  University  of  Wisconsin.  Interested 
chiefly  in  literature  and  finds  his  diversion  on  the  Four  Lakes. 
First  short  story,  "  Italia  Liberata,"  Scribner's  Magazine,  Jan- 
uary, 1908.  Author  of  "  With  the  Professor,"  a  translation  of 
Ovid's  "  Heroides  "  and  "  Amores,"  "  The  Indian  Stream  Re- 
public and  Luther  Parker,"  "  A  Country  Chronicle,"  and  "  A 
Country  Child."    Lives  in  Madison,  Wis. 

♦Country  Christmas,  A. 

« 
<123)Singmaster,  Elsie.  (Mrs.  Harold  Lewars.)  Born  at 
Schuylkill  Haven,  Pa.,  1879.  Graduate  of  RadcliflFe  College. 
Her  first  story,  "  The  Lese  Majeste  of  Hans  Heckendorn," 
Scribner's  Magazine,  November,  1905.  Author  of  "  When 
Sarah  Saved  the  Day,"  "  When  Sarah  Went  to  School," 
"  Gettysburg,"  "  Katy  Gaumer,"  "  Emmeline,"  "  The  Long  Jour- 
ney," "Martin  Luther:  the  Story  of  His  Life,"  and  "History 
of  Lutheran  Missions."    Lives  in  Gettysburg,  Pa. 

♦Christmas  Angel,  The. 
♦Flag  of  Eliphalet,  The. 

Smith,  Elizabeth  C.  A.    (See  "  Breck,  John.") 

< 23)  Smith,  Gordon  Arthur,  was  born  in  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  1886. 
Educated  at  Harvard.  Studied  architecture  in  Paris  for  four 
years.  Now  a  writer  by  profession.  Chief  interests :  aviation, 
architecture,  and  music.  First  published  story,  "  The  Bottom 
of  the  Sea,"  in  Black  Cat  at  age  of  sixteen.  Author  of  "  Mas- 
carose "  and  "The  Crown  of  Life."  Now  an  ensign  in  the 
U.  S.  Navy  Flying  Forces,  "  somewhere  in  France."  Home : 
Rochester,  N.  Y. 

♦End  of  the  Road,  The. 
Friend  of  the  People,  A. 


S04  THE   YEARBOOK 

(23)  Sneddon,  Robert  W.  Born  in  1880  at  Beith,  Ayrshire,  Scot- 
land, the  son  of  a  doctor.  Studied  arts  and  law  at  Glasgow 
University,  and  served  law  apprenticeship  at  Glasgow  and  Edin- 
burgh. Lived  in  London  and  Paris,  and  since  1909  has  lived  in 
New  York.  First  short  story,  "  Little  Golden  Shoes,"  The 
Forum,  August,  1912.  Author  of  "  The  Might-Have-Beens.'-' 
Fond  of  outdoors  and  fireside.  Chief  interest :  reaching  the 
heart  of  the  public.  Chief  sport :  hunting  for  a  publisher  for 
three  volumes  of  short  stories  and  for  producers  for  his  plays. 
"  Mirror  !    Mirror  !    Tell  Me  True !  " 

"  Star,  Mark,"  is  the  pseudonym  of  a  lady  who  prefers  to  re- 
main unknown. 

Garden  of  Sleep,  The. 

(23)  Steele,  Wilbur  Daniel.  Born  in  Greensboro,  N.  C,  1886. 
Educated  at  University  of  Denver.  Studied  art  in  Denver, 
Boston,  and  Paris.  First  short  story,  "  On  the  Ebb  Tide,"  Suc- 
cess, 1910.    Author  of  "  Storm."    Lives  in  Provincetown,  Mass. 

*Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman. 

Devil  of  a  Fellow,  A. 

Free. 
♦Ked's  Hand. 

Point  of  Honor,  A. 
*White  Hands. 
*The  Woman  at  Seven  Brothers. 

Steffens,  (Joseph)  Lincoln.  Born  at  San  Francisco,  1866. 
Educated  at  University  of  California,  Berlin,  Heidelberg,  Leip- 
zig, Paris,  and  Sorbonne.  Married,  1891.  In  newspaper  work, 
1892-1902.  Since  then  managing  and  associate  editor  at  dif- 
ferent times  of  McClure's  Magazine,  American  Magazine,  and 
Everybody's  Magazine.  Author  of  "  The  Shame  of  the  Cities," 
"  The  Struggle  for  Self  Government,"  "  Upbuilders,"  and  "  The 
Least  of  These."    He  lives  in  New  York  City. 

Bunk. 

Great  Lost  Moment,  The. 

"Sullivan,  Alan,  is  a  Canadian  author. 
Only  Time  He  Smiled,  The. 

(123)Synon,  Mary.  Born  in  Chicago,  1881.  Educated  at  St.  Jar- 
lath's  School,  West  Division  High  School,  and  University  of 
Chicago.  In  newspaper  work  since  1900.  Chosen  by  Gaelic 
League  in  1912  to  write  for  American  newspapers  a  series  of 
articles  on  the  Irish  situation.     First  story,  "The  Boy  Who 


ROLL   OF   HONOR   FOR    1917  505 

Went  Back  to  the  Bush,"  Scribner's  Magazine,  November,  1909. 
For  three  years  secretary  of  the  Woman's  Auxiliary  of  the 
Catholic  Church  Extension  Society ;,  now  executive  secretary  of 
the  Woman's  Liberty  Loan  Committee.  Author  of  "  The  Fleet 
Goes  By."    Lives  in  Wilmette,  111. 

Clay-Shuttered  Doors. 
End  of  the  Underground,  The. 
*None  So  Blind.  


Taber,  Elizabeth  Stead. 
*Scar,  The. 

(3)VoRSE,  Mary  Heaton.  (Mary  Heaton  Vorse  O'Brien.) 
Born  in  New  York.  Never  went  properly  to  school  because  her 
family  traveled  widely,  but  studied  art  in  Paris  at  several 
academies.  She  is  most  interested  in  radical  thought,  especially 
as  expressed  in  the  radical  wing  of  the  labor  movement.  Mar- 
ried Albert  W.  Vorse,  1898;  Joseph  O'Brien,  1912.  First  srory, 
"  The  Boy  Who  Did  n't  Catch  Things,"  Everybody's  Magazine, 
June,  1904.  Author  of  "  The  Breaking  in  of  a  Yachtsman's 
Wife,"  "  The  Very  Little  Person,"  "  The  Autobiography  of  an 
Elderly  Woman,"  "  The  Heart's  Country,"  and  "  The  Ninth 
Man."    Lives  in  Provincetown,  Mass.,  and  New  York  City. 

Great  God,  The. 

Pavilion  of  Saint  Merci,  The. 

(■23)  Weston,  George.  Born  in  New  York,  1880.  High  school  edu- 
cation. Studied  law  and  founded  the  Western  Engineering  Com- 
pany. On  editorial  staff  of  New  York  Evening  Sun  from  1900. 
Retired  to  farm  in  Connecticut,  1912.  An  enthusiastic  sports- 
man, farmer,  and  motorist.  Single,  white,  an  ardent  Repub- 
lican, a  staunch  admirer  of  Mr.  Charles  Chaplin,  an  accom- 
phshed  listener  to  the  violin,  a  Latin  versifier,  a  connoisseur  of 
roses,  a  fancier  of  fox-terriers,  a  lover  of  shad-roe  and  bacon, 
and  a  never-swerving  champion  of  woman's  suffrage.  First 
short  story,  "  After  Many  Years,"  Harper's  Magazine,  1910. 
Author  of  "  Oh,  Mary,  Be  Careful !  "    Lives  in  Packer,  Conn. 

Perfect  Gentleman,  A. 


THE  ROLL  OF  HONOR  OF  FOREIGN 

SHORT  STORIES   IN   AMERICAN 

MAGAZINES  FOR   1917 


Note.  Stories  of  special  excellence  are  indicated  by  an  as- 
terisk. The  index  figures  i,  2,  and  3  prefixed  to  the  name  of  the 
author  indicate  that  his  work  has  been  included  in  the  Rolls  of 
Honor  for  1914,  1915,  and  1916  respectively. 

I.   English  and  Irish  Authors 

(23)AuM0NiER,  Stacy. 

*In  the  Way  of  Business. 

♦Packet,  The. 

*Them  Others." 
(3)Beresford,  J.  D. 

*Escape,  The. 

*Little  Town,  The. 

♦Powers  of  the  Air. 
(13)  Conrad,  Joseph. 

♦Warrior's  Soul,  The 
DuDENEY,  Mrs.  Henry. 

♦Feather-bed,  The. 
DuNSANY,  Lord. 

♦How  the  Gods  Avenged  Meoul  Ki  Ning. 
(123)  Galsworthy,  John. 

♦Defeat. 

Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 
Juryman,  The. 
George,  W.  L. 

♦Interlude. 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson, 

♦News,  The. 
Hamilton,  Cosmo. 

Ladder  Leaning  on  a  Cloud,  The. 
HousMAN,  Laurence. 
Inside-out. 


FOREIGN   ROLL   OF   HONOR  507 

Lawrence,  D.  H. 

♦England,  My  England. 
*Mortal  Coil,  The. 
♦Thimble,  The. 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard. 

Bugler  of  the  Immortals,  The. 
Machen,  Arthur. 

♦Coming  of  the  Terror,  The.  ^ 

MacManus,  Seumas. 

*Mad  Man,  the  Dead  Man,  and  the  Devil,  The. 
MoRDAUNT,  Elinor. 

♦Gold  Fish,  The. 
Pertwee,  Roland. 

♦Camouflage. 

♦Red  and  White. 

(3)SouTAR,  Andrew. 

Behind  the  Veil. 

Thomas,  Edward. 

♦Passing  of  Pan,  The. 

(3)Wylie,  I.  A.  R. 
♦Holy  Fire. 
♦'Melia  No-Good. 
♦Return,  The. 

II.   Translations 

Andreyev,  Leonid  Nikolaevitch.     (Russian.) 

♦Lazarus. 
Anonymous.    (German.) 

Evocation,  The. 

"Huppdiwupp." 

Bazin,  Rene.     (French.) 

♦Mathurine's  Eyes. 
BouTET,  Frederic.     (French.) 

♦Medallion,  The. 

Chekhov,  Anton.  (Russian.)     (See  Tchekhov,  Anton.) 
Chirikov,  Evgeniy.     (Russian.) 

♦Past,  The. 
Delarue-Madrus,  Lucie.     (French.) 

♦Death  of  the  Dead,  The. 
Heine,  Anselma.  (German.) 

♦Vision,  The. 


So8  THE   YEARBOOK 

Le  Braz,  Anatole.     (French.) 
Christmas  Treasure,  The. 

Lev,  Bernard.  (Bohemmn.) 
Bert,  the  Scamp. 
*Marfa's  Assumption. 

Madeiros  e  Albuquerque,  Jose  de.     (Brazilian.) 

^Vengeance  of  Felix,  The. 
Netto,  Coelho.  ^(Brazilian.) 

*Pigeons,  The. 

Philippe,  Charles-Louis.     (French.) 
*Meeting,  The. 

RiNCK,  C.  A.  (German.) 
Song,  The. 

Saltykov,  M.  Y.     ("  N.  Schedrin.")     (Russian.)  - 

♦Hungry  Officials  and  the  Accommodating  Muzhik,  The. 

"  Skitalets."     (Russian.) 

*"  And  the  Forest  Burned." 

TcHEKHov,  Anton,     (Russian.) 
Dushitchka. 
♦Old  Age. 


THE  BEST  BOOKS  OF  SHORT  STORIES 
OF  1917:  A  CRITICAL  ANALYSIS 

Christmas  Tales  of  Flanders,  illustrated  by  Jean  de  Bosschere 
(Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.).  If  you  like  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales, 
here  is  a  book  which  comes  as  truly  from  the  heart  of  a  people. 
Many  old  folk  legends  are  here  set  down  just  as  they  came 
from  the  lips  of  old  people  in  Flanders,  and  as  they  have  never 
grown  old  in  that  countryside  let  us  hope  that  they  will  take 
root  equally  well  here.  The  volume  is  superbly  illustrated  with 
many  pictures  from  the  whimsical  fancy  of  Jean  de  Bosschere. 
These  pictures  are  indescribable,  but  they  will  rejoice  the  heart 
of  any  child,  old  or  young. 

From  Death  to  Life  by  A.  Apukhtin,  translated  by  R.  Frank  and 
E.  Huybers  (R.  Frank).  This  story,  which  so  happily  inaugu- 
rates a  series  of  translations  from  Russian  literature,  is  a 
poetic  study  in  life  after  death,  chronicling  the  experiences  of 
a  soul  between  death  and  rebirth.  The  translators  have  suc- 
ceeded in  reflecting  successfully  the  fine  imaginative  style  of 
this  prose  poem,  which  deserves  to  be  widely  known.  It  tempts 
us  to  wish  that  other  stories  by  Apukhtin  may  soon  find  an 
English  translator. 

Tales  of  the  Revolution  by  Michael  Arfsibashef,  translated  by 
Percy  Pinkerton.  (B.  W.  Huebsch.)  The  five  tales  by  Artzi- 
bashef  included  in  this  volume  all  have  the  same  quality  of 
bitter  irony  and  mordant  self-analysis.  The  psychological  reve- 
lation of  the  mind  that  has  made  the  later  phases  of  the  present 
Russian  Revolution  possible  is  complete,  and  I  know  of  no  book 
that  presents  more  clearly  and  truthfully  the  rudderless  pes- 
simism of  these  particular  spiritual  reactions.  Such  courageous 
dissection  of  the  diseased  mind  has  never  been  undertaken  in 
American  or  English  fiction,  and  though  its  realism  is  appalling, 
it  is  healthful  in  its  naked  frankness. 

The  Friends  by  Stacy  Aumonier  (The  Century  Co.).  When 
"  The  Friends  "  was  published  two  years  ago  in  The  Century 
Magazine,  it  was  evident  at  once  that  an  important  new  short- 
story  writer  had  arrived.  The  homely  humanity  of  his  charac- 
terization was  but  the  evidence  of  a  rich  imaginative  talent 
that  found  self-expression  in  the  more  quiet  ways  of  life.    I 


510  THE   YEARBOOK 

said  at  the  time  that  I  believed  "  The  Friends  "  to  be  one  of 
the  two  best  short  stories  of  1915,  and  others  felt  it  to  be  the 
best  story  of  the  year.  To  "  The  Friends "  have  now  been 
added  in  this  volume  two  other  stories  of  almost  equal  distinc- 
tion, —  "  The  Packet  "  and  "  '  In  the  Way  of  Business.'  "  Whiie 
Mr.  Aumonier  has  a  certain  didactic  intention  in  these  stories, 
he  has  kept  it  entirely  subordinate  to  the  artistry  of  his  exposi- 
tion, and  it  is  the  few  characters  which  he  has  added  to  Eng- 
lish fiction  that  we  remember  after  his  somewhat  obvious  moral 
has  been  conveyed.  His  short  stories  have  the  same  flavor 
of  belated  Victorianism  that  one  enjoys  in  the  novels  of  Wil- 
liam De  Morgan,  and  he  is  equallv  noteworthy  in  his  chosen 
field. 

Irish  Idylls  by  Jane  Barlow  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.).  This 
new  edition  of  "  Irish  Idylls  "  should  introduce  the  admirable 
studies  of  Miss  Barlow  to  a  new  audience  that  may  not  be 
familiar  with  what  was  a  pioneer  volume  in  its  day.  Published 
in  1893,  it  almost  marked  the  beginning  of  the  Irish  literary 
movement,  and  so  many  fine  writers  followed  Miss  Barlow  that 
she  has  been  most  unfairly  concealed  by  their  shadows.  Her 
studies  of  the  lives  and  deaths,  joys  and  sorrows,  of  Connemara 
peasants  are  none  the  less  real  because  they  are  the  product  of 
observation  by  one  who  did  not  live  among  them.  They  show, 
as  Miss  Barlow  says,  that  "  there  are  plenty  of  things  beside 
turf  to  be  found  in  a  bog."  It  is  true  that  they  represent  a 
slight  spirit  of  condescension,  entirely  absent  from  the  work  of 
Padraic  Colum,  for  instance,  but  they  approach  far  more  closely 
to  the  heart  of  the  Irish  fishermen  and  farmers  than  the  work 
of  any  other  English  type  of  mind;  and  although  Miss  Barlow 
is  best  known  today  by  her  poetry,  I  have  always  felt  that  she 
conveyed  more  poetry  into  "  Irish  Idylls  "  than  into  any  other 
of  her  books.  The  volume  is  a  necessary  and  permanent  edi- 
tion to  any  small  collection  of  modern  Irish  literature. 

Day  and  Night  Stories  by  Algernon  Blackwood  (E.  P.  Dutton 
&  Co.).  In  these  fifteen  short  stories  Mr.  Blackwood  has  ade- 
quately maintained  the  quality  of  his  best  previous  animistic 
work.  To  those  who  found  a  new  imaginative  world  in  _"  The 
Centaur  "  and  "  Pan's  Garden,"  the  old  familiar  magic  still  has 
power  in  many  of  these  stories,  —  almost  completely  in  "The 
Touch  of  Pan  "  and  "  Initiation."  Hardly  inferior  to  these 
stories  for  their  passionate  realitv  are  "The  Other  Wing,"  "The 
Occupant  of  the  Room,"  "  The  tryst,"  and  "  H.  S.  H."  There 
is  no  story  in  this  volume  which  would  not  have  made  the 
reputation  of  a  new  writer,  and  I  can  hardly  find  a  better  in- 
troduction than  "  Day  and  Night  Stories "  to  the  beauty  of 
Mr.  Blackwood's  imaginative  life.    He  serves  the  same  altar  of 


BEST   BOOKS   OF   SHORT   STORIES     511 

beauty  in  our  day  that  John  Keats  served  a  century  ago,  and 
I  cannot  but  believe  that  his  magic  will  gain  greater  poignancy 
as  generations  pass. 

The  Derelict  by  Phyllis  Bottome  (The  Century  Co.).  This  col- 
lecti9n  of  Miss  Bottome's  short  stories,  many  of  which  have 
previously  appeared  in  the  Century  Magazine  during  the  past 
two  years,  gives  a  more  complete  revelation  of  her  talent  than 
either  of  her  novels.  I  suspect  that  the  short  story  is  her  true 
literary  medium,  and  certainly  there  are  at  least  six  of  these 
eight  short  stories  which  I  should  be  compelled  to  list  with 
three  stars  in  my  annual  Roll  of  Honor.  In  subject  and  mood 
they  range  from  tragedy  to  social  comedy.  Elsewhere  in  this 
volume  I  have  discussed  "  '  Ironstone,' "  which  seems  to  me  the 
best  of  these  stories.  A  subtle  irony  pervades  them,  but  it  is 
so  definitely  concealed  that  its  insistence  is  never  evident. 

Old  Christmas,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales  in  Verse  by  Wil- 
liam Aspenwall  Bradley  (The  Houghton-Mifflin  Co.).  In  this 
series  of  vignettes  in  verse  Mr.  Bradley  has  presented  the 
Kentucky  mountaineer  as  imaginatively  as  Robert  Frost  has 
presented  the  farmer-folk  of  New  Hampshire  in  "  North  of 
Boston  "  and  "  Mountain  Interval."  The  racy  humor  of  these 
narratives  is  thoroughly  indigenous,  and  Mr.  Bradley's  work 
has  a  vivid  dramatic  power  which  challenges  successfully  a 
comparison  with  the  stories  of  John  Fox,  Jr.  These  poems, 
prove  Mr.  Bradley's  rightful  claim  to  be  the  first  adequate  im- 
aginative interpreter  of  the  people  who  live  in  the  Cumberland 
Mountains. 

The  Fighting  Men  by  Alden  Brooks  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 
Of  these  six  stories  four  have  been  published  in  Collier's 
Weekly  during  the  past  two  years,  and  elsewhere  I  have  had 
occasion  to  comment  upon  their  excellence.  These  narratives 
may  be  regarded  as  separate  cantos  of  a  war  epic,  which  is 
fairly  comparable  for  its  vividness  of  portrayal  to  Stephen 
Crane's  masterpiece,  "  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage."  Few 
writers,  other  than  these  two,  have  been  able  to  portray  the 
naked  ugliness  of  warfare,  and  the  passions  which  warfare  en- 
genders, with  more  brutal  power.  Time  alone  will  tell  whether 
these  stories  have  a  chance  of  permanence,  but  I  am  disposed 
to  rank  them  with  that  other  portrait  of  the  mercilessness  of 
war,  "  Under  Fire,"  by  Henri  Barbusse. 

Limehouse  Nights  by  Thomas  Burke  (Robert  M.  McBride  & 
Co.).  These  colorful  stories  of  life  in  London's  Chinatown 
are  in  my  humble  belief  destined  never  to  grow  old.  This 
volume  is  the  most  important  volume  of  short  stories  by  a  new 
English  writer  to  appear  during  191 7,  and  is  only  surpassed  by 


512  THE   YEARBOOK 

Daniel  Corkery's  volume  "  A  Munster  Twilight."  Such  pat- 
terned prose  in  fiction  has  not  been  known  since  the  days  of 
Walter  Pater,  and  Mr.  Burke's  sense  of  the  almost  intolerable 
beauty  of  ugly  things  has  a  persuasive  fascination  for  the 
reader  who  may  have  a  strong  prejudice  against  his  subjects. 
Such  horror  as  Mr.  Burke  has  imagined  is  almost  impossible 
to  portray  convincingly,  yet  the  author  has  softened  its  stark- 
ness  into  patterns  of  gracious  beauty  and  musical  rhythmic 
speech. 

RiNcoNETE  AND  CoRTADiLLO  by  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra, 
translated  from  the  Spanish  by  Mariano  J.  Lorente,  with  a 
preface  by  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham  (The  Four  Seas  Co.). 
This  is  an  excellent  translation  by  a  Spanish  man  of  letters  of 
what  is  perhaps  the  best  exemplary  Novel  by  Cervantes.  As 
Mr.  Cunninghame  Graham  points  out  in  his  delightful  intro- 
duction, "  Rinconete  and  Cortadillo  "  is  perhaps  the  best  sketch 
of  Spanish  low-life  that  has  come  down  to  us.  It  is  highly 
amoral,  despite  its  sub-title,  and  all  the  more  delightful  per- 
haps on  that  account.  I  hope  that  the  translator  may  be  per- 
suaded, if  the  volume  goes  into  the  second  edition  it  so  richly 
deserves,  to  omit  his  very  contentious  preface,  which  can  be 
of  interest  only  to  himself  and  two  other  people.  Then  our 
delight  in  this  volume  would  be  complete. 

•The  Duel  (Macmillan),  The  House  with  the  Mezzanine 
(Scribner),  The  Lady  with  the  Dog  (Macmillan),  The 
Party  (Macmillan),  and  Rothschild's  Fiddle  (Boni  and 
Liveright)  by  Anton  Chekhov.  To  The  Darling,  which  was 
the  first  volume,  so  far  as  I  know,  of  Chekhov,  to  be  presented 
to  the  American  public,  five  new  collections  of  Chekhov's  tales 
have  been  added  during  the  past  year  in  excellent  English  ren- 
derings. Three  of  these  volumes  are  translated  by  Constance 
Garnett,  whose  superb  translations  of  TurgenieflF  and  Dostoev- 
sky  are  well  known  to  American  readers.  Because  Chekhov 
ranks  with  Poe  and  De  Maupassant  as  one  of  the  three  supreme 
masters  of  the  short  story,  it  is  a  matter  of  signal  importance 
•  that  these  translations  should  appear,  and  in  them  every  mood 
of  Russian  life  is  reflected  with  subtle  artistry  and  a  passionate 
reality  of  creative  vision.  Chekhov  is  destined  to  exert  greater 
and  greater  influence  on  the  American  short  story  as  the  trans- 
lations of  his  work  increase,  and  these  five  volumes  prove  him 
to  be  fully  equal  to  Dostoevsky  in  sustained  and  varied  spirit- 
ual observation.  These  stories  range  through  the  entire  gamut 
of  human  emotion  from  sublime  tragedy  to  the  richest  and  most 
golden  comedy.  If  I  were  to  choose  a  single  author  of  short 
stories  for  my  library  on  a  desert  island,  my  choice  would  in- 
evitably turn  to  these  volumes. 


BEST    BOOKS   OF    SHORT    STORIES     513 

Those  Times  and  These  by  Irvin  S.  Cobb  (George  H.  Doran 
Co.).  This  is  quite  the  best  volume  of  short  stories  that  Mr. 
Cobb  has  yet  published.  Since  "  The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm," 
which  was  his  first  short  story,  was  printed  in  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post  seven  years  ago,  Mr.  Cobb's  literary  development 
has  been  rapid,  if  not  sure ;  but  he  may  now  with  this  volume 
lay  claim  fairly  to  the  mantle  of  Mark  Twain  for  the  rich 
humanity  with  which  he  has  endowed  his  substance  and  the 
inimitable  humor  of  his  characterizations.  In  "  The  Family 
Tree  "  and  "  Cinnamon  Seed  and  Sandy  Bottom  "  Mr.  Cobb  has 
added  two  stories  of  permanent  value  to  American  literature, 
and  in  "Mr.  Felsburg  Gets  Even"  and  "And  There  Was  Light" 
Mr.  Cobb's  literary  art  is  almost  as  well  sustained.  My  only 
quarrel  with  him  in  this  book  is  for  the  inclusion  of  "  A  Kiss 
for  Kindness,"  where  a  fine  short-story  possibility  seems  to  have 
been  entirely  missed  by  the  author,  perhaps  because,  as  he  in- 
genuously confessed  shortly  afterward,  he  had  just  become  an 
abandoned  farmer. 

Running  Free  by  James  B.  Connolly  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 
Of  the  ten  short  stories  included  by  Mr.  Connolly  in  this  col- 
lection, four  are  among  the  best  he  has  ever  written :  "  Breath 
O'  Dawn,"  "  The  Sea-Birds,"  "  The  Medicine  Ship,"  and  "  One 
Wireless  Night."  With  the  simplicity  of  speech  which  charac- 
terizes all  of  Mr.  Connolly's  work,  he  relates  his  story  for  the 
story's  sake.  Because  he  is  an  Irishman  he  is  an  incorrigible 
romanticist,  and  I  suspect  that  characterization  interests  him 
for  the  story's  sake  rather  than  for  itself  alone.  But  now  that 
Richard  Harding  Davis  is  dead,  I  suppose  that  James  B.  Con- 
nolly may  fairly  take  his  place  as  our  best  born  yarner,  with  all 
a  yarner's  privileges. 

Teepee  Neighbors  by  Grace  Coolidge  (The  Four  Seas  Co.).  This 
quiet  little  book  of  narratives  and  Indian  portraits  by  Miss 
Coolidge  deserves  more  attention  than  it  has  yet  received,  and 
for  its  qualities  of  quiet  pathos  and  sympathetic  insight  into  the 
Indian  character  I  associate  it  as  of  equal  value  with  Margaret 
Prescott  Montague's  stories  of  blind  children  in  West  Virginia. 

A  MuNSTER  Twilight  by  Daniel  Corkery  (Frederick  A.  Stokes 
Co.).  I  have  never  read  a  new  volume  of  short  stories  with 
such  a  sense  of  discovery  as  I  felt  when  these  tales  came  to  my 
hand.  Because  the  volume  appears  to  have  attracted  absolutely 
no  attention  as  yet  in  this  country,  I  wish  to  emphasize  my  firm 
belief  that  this  is  the  most  memorable  volume  of  short  stories 
published  in  English  within  the  past  five  years.  It  makes  us 
eager  to  read  Mr.  Corkery's  new  novel,  "The  Threshold  of 
Quiet,"  in  order  that  we  may  see  if  such  a  glorious  imaginative 
sweep  can  be  maintained  in  a  novel  as  the  reader  will  find  in 


514 


THE   YEARBOOK 


any  single  short  story  of  this  volume.  Here  you  will  find  the 
very  heart  of  Ireland's  spiritual  adventure  revealed  in  folk 
speech  of  inevitable  beauty.  There  is  not  a  story  in  the  book 
which  does  not  disclose  new  aspects  after  repeated  readings. 
A  craftsmanship  so  fine  and  vigorous  is  seldom  related  v^ith 
such  artistic  humility.  "  A  Munster  Twilight  "  proves  that  there 
are  still  great  men  in  Ireland. 

Brought  Forward,  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  Progress,  and  Suc- 
cess by  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham  (Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.). 
It  is  an  extraordinary  fact  that  a  short-story  writer  so  de- 
servedly well-known  in  England  as  Mr.  Cunninghame  Graham, 
whose  sketches  of  life  in  many  parts  of  the  globe  have  been 
published  at  frequent  intervals  through  the  past  decade,  is  yet 
entirely  unknown  in  this  country.  To  be  sure,  such  has  been  the 
fate  of  W.  H.  Hudson  until  very  recently.  These  six  volumes 
certainly  rank,  by  virtue  of  the  quality  of  their  style  and  the 
imaginative  reality  of  their  substance,  with  the  best  work  of 
Mr.  Hudson,  and  the  parallel  is  the  more  complete  because  both 
writers  have  made  the  vanished  life  of  the  South  American 
plains  real  to  the  English  mind.  Mr.  Cunninghame  Graham  is 
one  of  the  great  travel  writers,  and  ranks  with  Borrow  and 
Ford,  but  he  is  more  impartially  interested  in  character  than 
either  Borrow  or  Ford,  and  has  a  far  more  vivid  feeling  for  the 
spiritual  values  of  landscape.  It  may  be  that  these  stories  are 
for  the  few  only,  but  I  am  loth  to  believe  it.  The  life  of  the 
pampas  and  the  life  of  the  Moroccan  desert  live  in  these  pages 
with  an  actuality  as  great  as  the  life  of  the  American  plains 
lives  in  the  work  of  Hamlin  Garland,  and  there  is  an  epic  sweep 
in  Mr.  Cunninghame  Graham's  vision  that  I  find  in  no  other 
contemporary  English  writer. 

The  Echo  of  Voices  by  Richard  Curie  (Alfred  A.  Knopf) .  It  is 
very  rarely  that  a  disciple  as  faithful  as  Mr.  Curie  publishes  a 
volume  which  his  master  would  be  proud  to  sign,  but  I  think 
that  the  reader  will  detect  in  this  book  the  authentic  voice  of 
Joseph  Conrad.  Mr.  Conrad's  own  personal  enthusiasm  for  the 
book  is  an  ingratiating  introduction  to  the  reader,  but  in  these 
eight  stories  Mr.  Curie  can  certainly  afford  to  stand  alone.  Pre- 
occupied as  he  is  with  the  mystery  of  human  existence,  and 
the  effect  of  circumstance  upon  the  character,  he  portrays  eight 
widely  different  human  types,  almost  all  of  them  with  a  certain 
pathetic  futility  of  aspect,  so  surely  and  finely  that  they  live 
before  us.  It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the  three  best  short 
story  books  in  English  of  1917  come  from  the  other  side  of  the 
water.  "  Limehouse  Nights,"  "  A  Munster  Twilight,"  and  "  The 
Echo  of  Voices  "  make  this  year  so  memorable  in  fiction  that 
later  years  may  well  prove  disappointing. 


BEST    BOOKS    OF   SHORT   STORIES     515 

The  Eternal  Husband  and  Other  Stories  and  The  Gambler 
AND  Other  Stories  by  Fyodor  Dostoevsky  (The  Macmillan 
Co.).  These  two  new  volumes  continue  the  complete  English 
edition  of  Dostoevsky  which  is  being  translated  by  Constance 
Garnett.  The  renderings  have  the  same  qualities  of  idiomatic 
speech  and  subtly  rendered  nuance  which  is  always  to  be  found 
in  this  translator's  work,  and  although  both  of  these  volumes 
represent  the  minor  work  of  Dostoevsky,  his  minor  work  is 
finer  than  our  major  work,  and  characterized  by  a  passionate 
curiosity  about  the  human  soul  and  a  deep  insight  into  its  mys- 
teries. It  is  idle  to  argue  as  to  whether  these  narratives  are 
short  stories  or  brief  novels.  However  we  classify  them,  they- 
are  profound  revelations  of  human  relationship,  and  place  their 
author  among  the  great  masters  of  the  world's  literature.  Nor 
is  it  pertinent  to  discuss  their  technique  or  lack  of  it.  Their 
technique  is  sufficient  for  the  author's  purpose,  and  he  has 
achieved  his  will  nobly  in  a  manner  inevitable  to  him. 

Billy  Topsail,  M.D.,  by  Norman  Duncan  (Fleming  H.  Revell 
Co.).  In  this  posthumous  volume  Norman  Duncan  has  woven 
together  a  selection  of  his  later  short  stories,  in  which  further 
adventures  of  Doctor  Luke  of  the  Labrador  are  chronicled. 
They  represent  the  very  best  of  his  later  work,  and  in  them 
the  stern  physical  conditions  with  which  nature  surrounds  the 
life  of  man  provide  an  admirably  rendered  background  for  the 
portrayal  of  character  develo})ed  by  circumstance.  Norman 
Duncan  can  never  have  a  successor,  and  in  "  Billy  Topsail, 
M.D,"  the  reader  will  find  him  very  nearly  at  his  best. 

My  People  by  Caradoc  Evans  (Duffield  &  Co.).  "My  People" 
is  a  record  of  the  peasantry  of  West  Wales,  and  these  chroni- 
cles are  set  down  with  a  biblical  economy  of  speech  that  makes 
for  a  noteworthy  literary  style.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  they 
are  a  truthful  portrait  of  the  folk  of  whom  Mr.  Evans  writes, 
but  I  believe  that  he  has  created  a  real  subjective  world  of  his 
own  that  is  thoroughly  convincing.  H.  G.  Wells  has  written 
eulogistically  of  the  book  and  also  of  the  author's  novel,  "  Capel 
Sion."  I  appreciate  the  qualities  in  the  book  t^at  have  won 
Mr.  Wells'  esteem,  and  the  book  is  indeed  memorable.  But  I 
believe  that  its  excellence  is  an  artificial  excellence,  and  I  com- 
mend it  to  the  reader  as  a  work  of  incomparable  artifice  rather 
thap  as  a  faithful  reflection  of  life. 

Iv  Happy  Valley  by  John  Fox,  Jr.  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 
Of  these  ten  new  chronicles  of  the  Kentucky  mountains,  gath- 
ered from  the  pages  of  Scribner's  Magazine  during  the  past 
year  for  the  most  part,  "  His  Last  Christmas  Gift "  is  the  most 
memorable.    But  all  the  stories  are  brief  and  vivid  vignettes  of 


5i6  THE   YEARBOOK 

the  countryside  which  Mr.  Fox  knows  so  well,  told  with  the 
utmost  economy  of  speech  and  with  a  fine  sense  of  atmospheric 
values.  These  stories  are  a  happy  illustration  of  the  better  re- 
gionalism that  is  characteristic  of  contemporary  American  fic- 
tion, and  like  "  Ommirandy  "  will  prove  valuable  records  to  a 
later  generation  of  a  life  that  even  now  is  rapidly  passing  away. 

The  War,  Madame,  by  Paul  Geraldy  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 
The  delicate  fantasy  of  this  little  story  only  enhances  the  poign- 
ant tragedy  that  it  discloses.  Somehow  it  suggests  a  compari- 
son with  "  Four  Days  "  by  Hetty  Hemenway,  although  it  is  told 
with  greater  deftness  and  a  more  subtle  irony.  In  these  pages 
pulses  the  very  heart  of  France,  and  it  is  compact  of  the  spirit 
that  has  made  France  a  mistress  to  die  for.  The  translation  is 
admirable. 

Collected  Poems  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  (The  Macmillan 
Co.).  In  these  noble  studies  of  English  social  life  among  the 
laboring  classes  Mr.  Gibson  has  collected  all  of  his  stories  in 
verse  which  he  wishes  to  retain  in  his  collected  works.  He  has 
already  become  an  influence  on  the  work  of  many  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  the  qualities  of  incisive  observation,  warm 
humanity,  and  subtle  art  which  characterize  his  best  work  are 
adequately  disclosed  in  his  poems.  I  am  sure  that  the  reader  of 
short  stories  will  find  them  as  fascinating  as  any  volume  of 
prose  published  this  year,  and  the  sum  of  all  these  poems  is  an 
English  Comedie  Humaine  which  portrays  every  type  of  English 
labor  in  rich  imaginative  speech.  The  dramatic  quality  of  these 
stories  is  achieved  by  virtue  of  a  constant  economy  of  selection, 
and  a  nervous  singing  speech  as  authentic  as  that  of  Synge. 

Ommirandy  by  Armistead  C.  Gordon  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 
In  this  collection  Mr.  Gordon,  whose  name  is  so  happily  associ- 
ated with  that  of  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  has  collected  from  the 
files  of  Scribner's  Magazine  the  deft  and  insinuating  chronicles 
of  negro  life  on  a  Virginia  plantation  which  have  attracted  so 
much  favorable  comment  in  recent  years.  This  collection  places 
Mr.  Gordon  in  the  same  rank  as  the  author  of  "  Marse'  Chan," 
as  a  literary  artist  of  the  vanished  South.  These  transcripts 
from  the  folk  life  of  the  people  are  told  very  quietly  in  a  per- 
suasive style  that  reveals  a  rich  poetic  sense  of  human  values. 
The  mellow  atmosphere  of  these  stories  is  particularly  note- 
worthy, and  Mr.  Gordon's  instinctive  sympathy  with  his  subject 
has  saved  him  from  that  spirit  of  condescension  which  has  been 
the  weakness  of  so  much  American  folk  writing  in  the  past. 
"Ommirandy"  will  long  remain  a  happy  and  honorable  tradi- 
tion in  American  literature. 

The  Grim  13,  edited  by  Frederick  Stuart  Greene  (Dodd,  Mead  & 

-  Co.),  is  a  collection  of  thirteen  stories  of  literary  value  which 


BEST    BOOKS    OF   SHORT    STORIES     517 

have  been  declined  with  enthusiastic  praise  by  the  editors  of 
American  magazines  because  of  their  grim  quahty,  or  because 
they  have  an  extremely  unhappy  ending.  The  collection  was 
gathered  as  a  test  of  the  public  interest,  in  order  to  remove  if 
possible  what  the  editor  believed  to  be  a  false  editorial  policy. 
It  is  interesting  to  examine  these  stories,  and  to  pretend  that  one 
is  an  editor.  The  experiment  has  been  extremely  successful  and 
has  produced  at  least  one  story  by  an  American  author  ("  The 
Abigail  Sheriff  Memorial "  by  Vincent  O'Sullivan)  and  one 
story  by  an  English  author  ("  Old  Fags  "  by  Stacy  Aumonier), 
which  are  permanent  in  their  literary  value. 

Four  Days  :  the  Story  of  a  War  Marriage,  by  Hetty  Hemenway 
(Little,  Brown  &  Co.).  Of  this  story  I  have  spoken  elsewhere 
in  this  volume.  I  shall  only  add  here  that  it  is  one  of  the  most 
significant  spiritual  studies  in  fiction  that  the  war  has  produced, 
and  that  it  is  directly  told  in  a  style  of  sensitive  beauty. 

A  Diversity  of  Creatures  by  Rudyard  Kipling  (Doubleday,  Page 
&  Co.)  is  the  first  collection  of  Mr.  Kipling's  short  stories  pub- 
lished in  several  years.  I  must  confess  frankly  that  there  is  but 
one  story  in  the  volume  which  seems  to  me  a  completely  real- 
ized rendering  of  the  substance  which  Mr.  Kipling  has  chosen, 
and  that  is  the  incomparable  satire  on  publicity  entitled  "  The 
Village  That  Voted  the  Earth  Was  Flat."  In  this  volume  you 
will  find  many  stories  in  many  moods,  and  some  of  them  are 
postscripts  to  earlier  volumes  of  Mr.  Kipling.  I  cannot  believe 
that  his  war  stories  deserve  as  high  praise  as  they  have  been 
accorded.  This  volume  presents  Mr.  Kipling  as  the  most  con- 
summate living  master  of  technique  in  the  English  tongue,  but 
his  inspiration  has  failed  him  except  for  the  single  exception 
which  I  have  chronicled.  The  volume  is  a  memory  rather  than 
an  actuality,  and  it  has  the  pathos  of  a  forgotten  dream. 

The  Bracelet  of  Garnets  and  Other  Stories  by  Alexander 
Kuprin,  translated  by  Leo  Pasvolsky,  with  an  Introduction  by 
William  Lyon  Phelps  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons).  This  col- 
lection of  stories  is  based  on  the  author's  own  selection  for  this 
purpose,  and  although  the  translation  is  not  thoroughly  idio- 
matic, the  sheer  poetry  of  Kuprin's  imagination  shines  through 
the  veil  of  an  alien  speech  and  captures  the  imagination  of  the 
reader.  Kuprin's  pictorial  sense  is  curiously  similar  to  that  of 
Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  and  it  is  interesting  to  study  the  reactions 
of  similar  temperaments  on  widely  different  substances  and 
backgrounds.  Kuprin  achieves  a  chiselled  finality  of  utterance 
which  is  as  evident  in  his  tragedy  as  in  his  comedy,  and  in  some 
of  these  pieces  a  fine  allegorical  beauty  shines  prismatically 
through  a  carefully  economized  brilliance  of  narrative. 


5i8  THE   YEARBOOK 

The  Prussian  Officer  and  Other  Stories  by  D.  H.  Lawrence 
(B.  W.  Huebsch).  The  twelve  short  stories  collected  in  this 
volume  are  full  of  the  same  warm  color  that  one  always  asso- 
ciates with  Mr.  Lawrence's  best  work,  and  the  nervous  com- 
plaining beauty  of  his  style  makes  him  the  English  compeer  of 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio.  The  warm  lush  fragrance  of  many  Euro- 
pean countrysides  pervades  these  stories  and  a  certain  poignant 
sensual  disillusionment  is  insistently  stressed  by  the  characters 
who  ilit  through  the  shadowy  foreground.  It  is  the  definitely 
realized  and  concrete  sense  of  landscape  that  Mr.  Lawrence  has 
achieved  which  is  his  finest  artistic  attribute,  and  the  sensitive 
response  to  light  which  is  so  characteristic  an  element  in  his 
vision  bathes  all  the  pictures  he  presents  in  a  rich  glow,  whose 
gradations  of  light  and  shadow  respond  finely  to  the  emotional 
reactions  of  his  characters.  He  is  the  most  sophisticated  of  the 
contemporary  English  realists,  and  has  the  sense  of  poetry  to 
a  high  degree  which  is  conspicuously  absent  in  the  work  of 
other  English  novelists. 

A  Designer  of  Dawns  and  Other  Tales  by  Gertrude  Russell 
Lewis  (Pilgrim  Press).  I  set  this  volume  of  allegories  beside 
"  Flame  and  the  Shadow-Eater  "  by  Henrietta  Weaver  as  one 
of  the  two  best  books  of  allegories  published  in  1917.  These 
seven  little  tales  have  a  quiet  imaginative  glow  that  is  very  ap- 
pealing and  I  find  in  them  a  folk  quality  that  is  almost  Scandi- 
navian in  its  naivete. 

The  Terror  :  A  Mystery,  by  Arthur  Machen  (Robert  M.  McBride 
&  Co.).  When  this  story  was  first  published  in  the  Century 
Magazine  in  1917,  under  the  title  of  "The  Coming  of  the  Ter- 
ror," it  was  at  once  hailed  by  discriminating  readers  as  the  best 
shdrt  story  by  an  English  writer  published  in  an  American 
magazine  since  "  The  Friends  "  by  Stacy  Aumonier.  It  is  now 
published  in  its  complete  form  as  originally  written,  and  al- 
though it  is  as  long  as  a  short  novel,  it  has  an  essential  unity 
of  incident  which  justifies  us  in  claiming  it  as  a  short  story.  I 
suppose  that  Algernon  Blackwood  is  the  only  other  English 
writer  who  has  the  same  gift  for  making  strange  spiritual  ad- 
ventures completely  real  to  the  imagination,  and  the  author  of 
"  The  Bowmen  "  has  surpassed  even  that  fine  story  in  this 
description  of  how  a  mysterious  terror  overran  England  during 
the  last  years  of  the  great  war  and  how  the  mystery  of  its 
passing  was  finally  revealed.  The  emotional  tension  of  the 
reader  is  enhanced  by  the  quiet  matter-of-fact  air  with  which 
the  story  is  presented.  The  volume  is  one  of  the  best  five  or  six 
books  of  short  stories  which  England  has  produced  during  the 
past  year. 


BEST    BOOKS    OF    SHORT    STORIES     519 

The  Second  Odd  Number  :  Thirteen  Tales,  by  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant, the  translation  by  Charles  Henry  White,  an  Introduction 
by  William  Dean  Howells  (Harper  &  Brothers).  It  is  re- 
ported in  some  volume  of  French  literary  memoirs  that  Guy  de 
Maupassant  regarded  the  first  series  of  "  The  Odd  Number  " 
as  better  than  the  original.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  thirteen 
stories  which  make  up  this  volume  are  admirably  rendered  with 
a  careful  reflection  of  the  slightest  nuances.  As  Mr.  Howells 
states  in  his  introduction  to  the  volume :  "  The  range  of  these 
stories  is  not  very  great;  the  effect  they  make  is  greater  than 
the  range."  But  this  selection  has  been  admirably  chosen  with 
a  view  to  making  the  range  as  wide  as  possible,  and  1  can  only 
hope  that  it  will  serve  to  influence  some  of  our  younger  writers 
toward  a  greater  descriptive  and  emotional  economy. 

The  Girl  .\nd  the  Faun  by  Eden  Phillpotts  (J.  B.  Lippincott 
Co.).  These  eight  idylls  of  the  four  seasons  are  graceful  Greek 
legends  told  with  a  modern  touch  in  poetic  prose.  They  have  a 
quality  of  quiet  beauty  which  will  commend  them  to  many 
readers  to  whom  the  more  realistic  work  of  Mr.  Phillpotts  does 
not  appeal,  and  the  admirable  illustrations  by  Frank  Brangwyn 
are  a  felicitous  accompaniment  to  the  modulated  prose  of 
Mr.  Phillpotts. 

Barbed  Wire  and  Other  Poems  by  Edwin  Ford  Piper  (The  Mid- 
land Press,  Moorhead,  Minn.).  As  Grant  Showerman's  "A 
Country  Chronicle  "  is  an  admirable  rendering  of  the  farm  life 
of  Wisconsin  in  the  seventies,  so  these  poems  are  a  fine  imagi- 
native record  of  the  pioneer  life  of  Nebraska  a  little  later.  I 
believe  this  volume  to  contain  quite  as  fine  poetry  as  Robert 
Frost's  "  North  of  Boston."  Here  you  will  meet  many  men 
and  women  struggling  against  the  loneliness  of  prairie  life,  and 
winning  spiritual  as  well  as  material  conquests  out  of  nature. 
The  greater  part  of  this  volume  is  composed  of  a  series  of  nar- 
rative poems  entitled  "  The  Neighborhood."  Their  lack  of 
literary  sophistication  is  part  of  their  charm,  and  the  calculated 
ruggedness  of  the  author's  style  is  a  faithful  reflection  of  his 
barren  physical  background. 

Best  Russian  Short  Stories,  compiled  and  edited  by  Thomas 
Seltzer  (Boni  and  Liveright).  This  is  the  first  anthology  of 
Russian  short  stories  which  has  yet  been  published  in  English, 
and  the  selections  are  excellent.  There  is  a  wide  range  of  lit- 
erary art  represented  in  this  volume,  and  the  translations  arc 
extremely  smooth  and  idiomatic.  \s  is  only  fitting,  the  work 
of  Tolstoi,  Dostoievsky,  Turgencv,  and  other  Russians,  whose 
work  is  already  well  known  to  the  American  reader,  are  only 
represented  lightly  in  the  collection,  and  greater  space  is  de- 


520  THE   YEARBOOK 

voted  to  the  stories  of  Chekhov  and  other  writers  less  familiar 
to  the  American  public.  Nineteen  stories  are  translated  from 
the  work  of  Pushkin,  Gogol,  Turgenev,  Dostoievsky,  Tolstoi, 
Saltykov,  Korolenko,  Garshin,  Chekhov,  Sologub,  Potapenko, 
Semyonov,  Gorky,  Andreyev,  Artzybashev,  and  Kuprin,  and  the 
volume  is  prefixed  with  an  excellent  critical  introduction  by  the 
editor. 

A  Country  Child  by  Grant  Showerman  (The  Century  Co.). 
This  is  a  sequel  to  Professor  Showerman's  earlier  volume,  "  A 
Country  Chronicle."  The  book  is  an  epic  of  what  a  little  boy 
saw  an4  felt  and  dreamed  on  a  farm  in  Wisconsin  forty  years 
ago,  told  just  as  a  little  boy  would  tell  it.  It  will  help  you  to 
remember  how  you  went  to  the  circus  and  how  you  stayed  up 
late  on  your  birthday.  You  will  also  recall  the  ball  game  the 
day  you  did  n't  go  home  from  school,  and  how  you  went  in 
swimming,  and  about  that  fight  with  Bill,  and  ever  so  many 
other  things  which  you  thought  that  you  had  forgotten.  I 
think  all  the  boys  and  girls  that  used  to  write  to  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley  should  send  a  birthday  letter  this  year  to  Grant 
Showerman,  so  that  he  will  get  it  on  the  9th  of  January;  Let 's 
start  a  movement  in  Wisconsin  to  have  a  Showerman  Day. 

Flame  and  the  Shadow-Eater  by  Henrietta  Weaver  (Henry 
Holt  &  Co.).  In  these  fifteen  short  allegorical  tales  Henrietta 
Weaver  has  introduced  with  considerable  skill  much  Persian 
philosophy,  and  presented  it  to  the  American  reader  so  attrac- 
tively that  it  is  thoroughly  persuasive.  Akin  in  a  measure  to 
certain  similar  stories  by  Jeannette  Marks,  they  have  the  same 
prismatic  quality  of  brilliance  and  impermanence.  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  reader  who  enjoys  the  poetry  of  the  mind  will 
find  these  allegories  specially  esoteric,  but  I  may  commend  them 
frankly  for  their  story  value,  irrespective  of  the  symbols  which 
the  author  has  chosen  to  attach  to  them. 

The  Great  Modern  French  Stories  edited  by  Willard  Hunting- 
ton Wright  (Boni  and  Liveright),  M.^rried  by  August  Strind- 
berg  (Boni  and  Liveright),  and  Visions  by  Count  Ilya  Tolstoy 
(James  B.  Pond)  have  reached  me  too  late  for  extended  re- 
view. I  list  them  here  as  three  volumes  of  permanent  literary 
value. 


VOLUMES   OF   SHORT  STORIES 
PUBLISHED   DURING   1917 

Note.  An  asterisk  before  a  title  indicates  distinction.  This  list 
includes  single  short  stories,  collections  of  short  stories,  and  a 
few  continuous  narratives  based  on  short  stories  previously  pub- 
lished in  magazines. 

I.   American  Authors 

Adams,  Samuel  Hopkins. 

*Our  Square  and  the  People  In  It.     Houghton-Mifflin. 
Bain,  R.  Nisbet. 

♦Cossack  Fairy  Tales.    Stokes. 
Bangs,  John  Kendrick. 

Half  Hours  With  the  Idiot.    Little,  Brown. 
Bassett,  Wilbur. 

Wander-Ships.    Open  Court  Pub.  Co. 
Beach,  Rex. 

Laughing  Bill  Hyde.    Harper. 
Bent,  Rev.  John  J. 

Stranger  than  Fiction.    Sheehan. 
Bottome,  Phyllis. 

*Derelict,  The.    Century. 

Bradley,  William  Aspinwall. 

*01d  Christmas,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales  in  Verse.    Hough- 
ton-Mifflin. 
Brady,  Cyrus  Townsend. 

Little  Book  for  Christmas,  A.    Putnam. 
Brooks,  Alden. 

♦Fighting  Men,  The.     Scribner. 
Brown,  Katharine  Holland. 

♦Wages  of  Honor,  The.    Scribner. 
Brubaker,  Howard. 
Ranny.    Harper. 
Brunton,  F.  Carmichael. 

Enchanted  Lochan,  The.    Crowell. 


522  THE    YEARBOOK 

BUNNER,   H.   C. 

*More  "  Short  Sixes."    Scribner. 
*"  Short  Sixes."    Scribner. 
Bunts,  Frederick  Emory. 

Soul    of    Henry    Harrington,    The.      Cleveland:    privately 
printed. 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker. 

Dominie  Dean.    Revell. 
Carmichael,  M.  H. 

Pioneer  Days.    Duffield. 
Carter,  Charles  Franklin. 

Stories  of  the  Old  Missions  of  California.     Elder. 
Chambers,  Robert  W. 

*Barbarians.    Appleton. 
Cobb,  Irvin  S. 

*Those  Times  and  These.     Doran. 
Coffin,  Julia  H. 

Vendor  of  Dreams,  The.    Dodd,  Mead. 
♦Collier's,  Prize  Stories  From.    5  v.    Collier. 
Connolly,  James  B. 

♦Running  Free.    Scribner. 
CooLiDGE,  Grace. 

*Teepee  Neighbors.    Four  Seas. 
Crownfield,  Gertrude. 

Little  Tailor  of  the  Winding  Way,  The.    Macmillan. 
Davis,  Charles  Belmont. 

Her  Own  Sort  and  Others.    Scribner. 
Davis,  Richard  Harding. 

*Boy  Scout,  The,  and  Other  Stories.    Scribner. 
♦Deserter,  The.     Scribner. 

Duncan,  Norman. 

♦Billy  Topsail,  M.D.    Revell. 
Eells,  Elsie  Spicer. 

♦Fairy  Tales  from  Brazil.    Dodd,  Mead. 
Fisher,  Fred  B. 

Gifts  from  the  Desert.    Abington  Press. 
Foote,  John  Taintor. 

Dumb-bell  of  Brookfield.    Appleton. 
Ford,  Sewell. 

Wilt  Thou  Torchy.    Clode. 

For  France.    Doubleday,  Page. 


VOLUMES    OF   SHORT    STORIES         523 

Fox,  Edward  Lyell. 

New  Gethsemane,  The.     McBride. 
Fox,  John,  Jr. 

*In  Happy  Valley.     Scribner. 
FuTRELLE,  Jacques. 

Problem  of  Cell  13,  The.     Dodd,  Mead. 

Gordon,  Armistead  C. 

*Ommirandy.     Scribner. 
Greene,  Frederick  Stuart,  Editor. 

*Grim  Thirteen,  The.    Dodd,  Mead. 
"  Hall,  Hol worthy." 

Dormie  One.     Century. 
Hanshew,  T.  W. 

Cleek's  Government  Cases.     Doubleday,  Page. 
Hemenway,  Hetty. 

♦Four  Days.    Little,  Brown. 
"  Henry,  O." 

♦Waifs  and  Strays.     Doubleday,  Page. 

HiNES,  Jack. 

Blue  Streak,  The.     Doran. 
Holmes,  Mary  Caroline.  , 

"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     Revell. 
Hough,  Lynn  Harold. 

Little  Old  Lady,  The. 
Hughes,  Rupert. 

In  a  Little  Town.    Harper. 
Ingram,  Eleanor  M. 

Twice  American,  The.    Lippincott. 
Irwin,  Wallace. 

Pilgrims  Into  I^olly.    Doran. 
Jefferson,  Charles  E. 

Land  of  Enough,  The.    Crowell. 

Johnston,  Mary. 

♦Wanderers,  The.    Houghton-MifFlin. 
Johnston,  Willl\m. 

"  Limpy."    Little,  Brown. 
Karr,  Louise. 

Trouble.    Himebaugh  and  Browne. 
Kellerhouse,  Lucy  Charlton. 

♦Forest  Fancies.    Duffield. 
Kirk,  R.  G. 

White  Monarch  and  the  Gas-Hou.se  Pup.    Little,  Brown. 


524  THE   YEARBOOK 

KiRKLAND,  Winifred. 

*My  Little  Town.    Dutton. 

Lait,  Jack. 

Gus  the  Bus  and  Evelyn,  the  Exquisite  Checker.     Double- 
day,  Page. 

Lardner,  Ring  W. 

Gullible's  Travels.    Bobbs-Merrill. 

Leacock,  Stephen. 

Frenzied  Fiction.    Lane. 
Lewis,  Gertrude  Russell. 

♦Designer  of  Dawns,  A.    Pilgrim  Press. 

McClung,  Nellie  L. 

Next  of  Kin,  The.     Houghton-Mifflin. 

Mackay,  Helen. 

♦Journal  of  Small  Things.    Duffield. 
Meirovitz,  Joseph  M. 

Path  of  Error,  The.    Four  Seas  Co. 
Merwin,  Samuel. 

Temperamental  Henry.     Bobbs-Merrill. 
Newton,  Alma. 

Memories.    Duffield. 
Noble,  Edward. 

Outposts  of  the  Fleet.     Houghton-Mifflin. 
O'Brien,  Edward  J.,  Editor. 

The  Best  Short  Stories  of  1916.    Small,  Maynard. 
Osborn,  E.  B. 

Maid  with  Wings,  The.    Lane. 
Paine,  Albert  Bigelow. 

Mr.  Crow  and  the  Whitewash.    Harper. 

Mr.  Rabbit's  Wedding.    Harper. 

Mr.  Turtle's  Flying  Adventure.    Harper. 
Paine,  Ralph  D. 

Sons  of  Eli.    Scribner. 

Perkins,  J.  R. 

Thin  Volume,  A.    Saalfield. 
Perry,  Montanye. 

Where  It  Touches  the  Ground.    Abingdon  Press. 

Zerah.    Abingdon  Press. 

Piper,  Edwin  Ford. 

♦Barbed  Wire  and  Other  Poems.    Midland  Press. 
Putnam,  Nina  Wilcox. 

When  the  Highbrow  Joined  the  Outfit.     Duffield. 


■    VOLUMES    OF   SHORT    STORIES         525 

RikvE,  Arthur  B. 

Ear  in  the  Wall,  The.    Hearst. 

Treasure  Train,  The.    Harper. 
Richmond,  Grace  S. 

Whistling  Mother,  The.     Doubleday,  Page. 
RiNEHART,  Mary  Roberts. 

Bab:  A  Sub-deb.    Doran. 
Rodeheaver,  Homer. 

Song  Stories  of  the  Sawdust  Trail.    Moffat,  Yard. 

ROSENBACH,  A.  S.  W. 

Unpublishable  Memoirs,  The.    Kennerley. 
Ryder,  Arthur  W. 

*Twenty-two  Goblins.    Button. 
Sabin,  Edwin  L. 

How  Are  You  Feeling  Now?    Little,  Brown. 
ScHAYER,  E.  Richard. 

Good  Loser,  The.    McKay. 
Scott,  Leroy. 

Mary  Regan.    Houghton-Mifflin. 
Showerman,  Grant. 

♦Country  Child,  A.    Century. 

Steiner,  Edward  A. 

My  Doctor  Dog.    Revell. 
Stern,  Gertrude. 

My  Mother  and  L    Macmillan. 
Stitzer,  Daniel  Ahrens. 

Stories  of  the  Occult.    Badger. 
Stuart,  Florence  Partello. 

Piang,  the  Moro  Jungle  Boy.    Century. 

Taber,  Susan. 

Optimist,  The.    Duffield. 

"  Thanet,  Octave." 

And  the  Captain  Entered.    Bobbs-Merrill. 

Thomson,  Edward  William. 

Old  Man  Savarin  Stories.    Doran. 

Tompkins,  Juliet  Wilbor. 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Oldest  House.    Bobbs-Merrill. 
Turpin,  Edna.      ^ 

Peggy  of  Roundabout  Lane.    Macmillan. 
Tuttle,  Florence  Guertin. 

Give  My  Love  to  Maria.    Abingdon  Press. 


526  THE   YEARBOOK 

Van  Loan,  Charles  E. 

Old  Man  Curry.     Doran. 

Weaver,  Henrietta. 

*Flame  and  the  Shadow-Eater.    Holt 

Willsie,  Honore. 

Benefits  Forgot.    Stokes. 


II.    English  and  Irish  Authors 

Aumonier  Stacy. 

*Friends,  The,  and  Two  Other  Stories.     Century. 

"  Ayscough,  John." 

*French  Windows.    Longmans. 

Barlow,  Jane. 

*lrish  Idylls.    Dodd,  Mead. 

Bell,  J.  J. 

Cupid  in  Oilskins.    Revell. 
*Kiddies.     Stokes. 

Benson,  Edward  Frederic. 

Freaks  of  Mayfair,  The.    Doran. 

Blackwood,  Algernon. 

*Day  and  Night  Stories.    Dutton. 
Burke,  Thomas. 

*Limehouse  Nights.     McBride. 

Corkery,  Daniel. 

*Munster  Twilight,  A.     Stokes. 

Cunninghams  Graham.  R.  B. 
*Brought  Forward.    Stokes. 
*Charity.     Stokes. 
*Faith.     Stokes. 
*Hope.     Stokes. 
♦Progress.     Stokes. 
♦Success.     Stokes. 

Curle,  Richard. 

♦Echo  of  Voices.    Knopf. 

Dawson,  Coningsby. 

♦Seventh  Christmas,  The.    Holt. 
Dell,  Ethel  M.  ^ 

Safety  Curtain,  The.     Putnam. 

Doyle,  Sir  Arthur  Conan. 
His  Last  Bow.    Doran. 


VOLUMES    OF   SHORT    STORIES         527 

DuNSANY,  Lord. 

♦Dreamer's  Tales.  A.     Boni  and  Liveright. 

*Fifty-one  Tales.    Little,  Brown. 
Evans,  Caradoc. 

*My  People.    Duffield. 
Gate,  Ethel  M. 

♦Broom  Fairies,  The.    Yale  Univ.  Press. 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson. 

♦Collected  Poems.    Macmillan. 
Hall,  Mordauxt. 

Some  Naval  Yarns.     Doran. 
Harrison,  Cuthbert  Woodville. 

♦Magic  of  Malaya,  The.    Lane. 
Howard.  Keble. 

Smiths  in  War  Time,  The.    Lane. 
Jerome,  Jerome  K. 

Street  of  the  Blank  Wall,  The.    Dodd,  Mead, 
Kipling,  Rudyard. 

♦Diversity  of  Creatures,  A.     Doubleday,  Page. 
Machen,  Arthur. 

♦Terror,  The.    McBride. 
Mason,  A.  E.  W. 

♦Four  Corners  of  the  World,  The.    Scribner. 
Newbolt,  Sir  Henry. 

♦Happy  Warrior,  The.    Longmans,  Green. 
Tales  of  the  Great  War.    Longmans.  Green. 
Peacocke,  E.  M. 

Dicky,  Knight-Errant.     McBride. 

Phillpotts,  Eden. 

♦Girl  and  the  Faun,  The.    Lippincott. 
Ransome,  Arthur. 

♦Old  Peter's  Russian  Tales.    Stokes. 
Rendall,  Vernon  Horace. 

London  Nights  of  Belsize,  The.    Lane. 

"  Rohmer,  Sax." 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    McBride. 
"  Sapper." 

♦No  Man's  Land.    Doran. 
Stacpoole,  H.  De  Vere. 

Sea  Plunder.    Lane. 

SWINTON,   LlEUT.-CoL.   E.  D. 

Great  Tab  Dope,  The.     Doubleday,  Page. 


528  THE   YEARBOOK 

'■  Taffrail." 

Sea  Spray  and  Spindrift.    Lippincott. 

Tree,  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm. 

Nothing  Matters.    Houghton-Mifflin. 

Wren,  Percival  C.  ^ 

Young  Stagers.    Longmans.  Green. 

HI.    Translations 

.Apukhtin,  a.     (Russian.) 

*From  Death  to  Life.    Frank. 

Artzibashef,  Michael  Mikhailovich.     (Russian.) 
*Tales  of  the  Revolution.    Huebsch. 

Cervantes,  Miguel  de.    (Spanish.) 

*Rinconete  and  Cortadillo.    Four  Seas. 

Chekhov,  Anton.     (Russian.)     (See  Tchekhov,  Anton.) 

^Christmas  Tales  of  Flanders.     (Belgian.)    Dodd.  Mead. 

Dostoevskii,  Fyodor  Mikhailovich.     (Russian.) 
*Eternal  Husband,  The.    Macmillan. 
*Gambler,  and  Other  Stories,  The.     Macmillan. 

France,  Anatole.  (French.) 
*Girls  and  Boys.  Duffield. 
*Our  Children.     Duffield. 

Geraldy,  Paul.     (French.) 

*The  War,  Madame.     Scribner. 

Tspirescu.  Petre.     (Rumanian.) 

*Foundling  Prince,  The.     Houghton-Mifflin. 

KupRiN,  Alexander  Ivanovich.     (Russian.) 
^Bracelet  of  Garnets,  The.    Scribner. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de.     (French.) 

♦Mademoiselle  Fifi.    Boni  and  Liveright. 
*Second  Odd  Number,  The.     Harper. 

Seltzer,  Thomas,  Editor.     (Russian.) 

*Best  Russian  Short  Stories,  The.    Boni  and  Liveright. 

^Shield,  The.     (Russian.)    Knopf. 

Strindberg,  August.     (Swedish.) 
♦Married.     Boni  and  Liveright. 

Sudermann,  Hermann.     (German.) 
*Dame  Care.    Boni  and  Liveright. 


VOLUMES    OF   SHORT    STORIES         529 

TcHEKHOv,  Anton.     (Russian.) 

*Duel,  The.    Macmillan. 
. .  *House  with  the  Mezzanine,  The.    Scribner. 

*Lady  with  the  Dog,  The.    Macmillan. 

*Party,  The.    Macmillan. 

♦Rothschild's  Fiddle.    Boni  and  Liveright. 

♦Will  o'  the  Wisp.    International  Authors'  Association. 

Tolstoi,  Ilya,  Count. 
♦Visions.     Pond. 

Wright,  Will.\rd  Huntington,  .EdiVor.     (French.) 

♦Great  Modern  French  Stories,  The.    Boni  and  Liveright 


THE  BEST  SIXTY-THREE  AMERICAN 
SHORT  STORIES  OF  1917 

The  sixty-three  short  stories  published  in  the  American  maga- 
zines during  1917  which  I  shall  discuss  in  this  article  are  chosen 
from  a  larger  group  of  about  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  stories, 
whose  literary  excellence  justified  me  in  including  them  in  my 
annual  "  Roll  of  Honor."  The  stories  which  are  included  in  this 
Roll  of  Honor  have  been  chosen  from  the  stories  published  in 
about  sixty-five  American  periodicals  during  1917.  In  selecting 
them,  I  have  sought  to  accept  the  author's  point  of  view  and 
manner  of  treatment,  and  to  measure  simply  the  degree  of  success 
he  had  in  doing  what  he  set  out  to  achieve.  But  I  must  confess 
that  it  has  been  difficult  to  eliminate  personal  admiration  com- 
pletely in  the  further  winnowing  which  has  resulted  in  this  selec- 
tion of  sixty-three  stories.  Below  are  set  forth  the  particular 
qualities  which  have  seemed  to  me  to  justify  in  each  case  the  in- 
clusion of  a  story  in  this  list. 

1.  The  Excursion  by  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock  (The  Pictorial 
Review)  is  in  my  belief  one  of  the  best  five  American  short 
stories  of  the  year.  It  is  significant  because  of  its  faithful  and 
imaginative  rendering  of  American  folk-life,  because  of  its  subtle 
characterization,  and  the  successful  manner  in  which  it  reveals 
the  essentially  racy  humor  of  the  American  countryside  with  the 
utmost  economy  of  means.  The  characterization  is  achieved  al- 
most entirely  through  dialogue,  and  the  portraiture  of  the  charac- 
ters is  rendered  inimitably  in  a  phrase  or  two.  In  this  story,  as 
well  as  in  "  The  Band,"  Miss  Babcock  has  earned  the  right  to  a 
place  beside  Francis  Buzzell  as  a  regional  story  writer,  fairly 
comparable  to  John  Trevena's  renderings  of  Dartmoor. 

2.  The  Brothers  by  Thomas  Beer  (The  Century  Magazine) 
will  remind  the  reader  in  some  respects  of  Frederick  Stuart 
Greene's  story,  "  The  Black  Pool,"  published  in  "  The  Grim  13." 
But  apart  from  a  superficial  resemblance  in  the  substance  with 
which  both  writers  deal,  the  two  stories  are  more  notable  in  their 
differences  than  in  their  resemblances.  If  "  The  Brothers  "  is  less 
inevitable  than  "  The  Black  Pool,"  it  is  perhaps  a  more  sophisti- 
cated work  of  art,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  its  conclusion  and 
the  resolution  of  character  that  it  involves  is  not  more  artistically 
convincing  than  the  end  of  "  The  Black  Pool."    It  is  certainly  a 


SIXTY-THREE   AMERICAN    STORIES     531 

memorable  first  story  by  a  new  writer  and  would  of  itself  be 
enough  to  make  a  reputation.  Mr.  Beer  is  the  most  original  new 
talent  that  the  Century  Magazine  has  discovered  since  Stacy 
Aumonier. 

3.  Onnie  by  Thomas  Beer  (The  Century  Magazine)  has  a 
certain  stark  faithfulness  which  makes  of  somewhat  obvious 
material  an  extremely  vivid  and  freshly  felt  rendering  of  life. 
There  is  a  certain  quality  of  observation  in  the  story  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  think  of  as  a  Gallic  rather  than  an  American 
trait.  1  think  that  Mr.  Beer  has  slightly  broadened  his  canvas 
where  greater  restraint  and  less  cautious  use  of  suggestion  would 
have  better  answered  his  purpose.  But  '"  Onnie  "  is  a  better  story 
than  "  The  Brothers  "  to  my  mind,  and  Mr.  Beer,  by  virtue  of 
these  two  stories,  is  one  of  the  two  or  three  most  interesting  new 
talents  of  the  year. 

4.  Ironstone  by  Phyllis  Bottome  (The  Century  Magazine). 
To  those  who  have  enjoyed  in  recent  years  the  admirable  social 
comedy  and  deft  handling  of  English  character  to  which  Miss 
Bottome  has  accustomed  us,  "  Ironstone  "  must  have  come  as  a 
surprise  in  its  revelation  of  a  new  aspect  in  the  author's  talent, 
akin  to  the  kind  of  tale  which  is  found  at  its  best  as  a  "  middle  " 
in  the  London  Nation.  It  compresses  the  emotion  of  a  Greek 
drama  into  a  space  of  perhaps  four  thousand  words.  I  find  that 
the  closing  dialogue  in  this  story  is  as  certain  in  its  march  as  the 
closing  pages  of  "  Riders  to  the  Sea,"  and  the  katharsis  is  time- 
less in  its  final  solution. 

5.  From  Hungary  by  "John  Breck"  (The  Bookman)  is  per- 
haps not  to  be  classified  as  a  short  story,  but  the  academic  limi- 
tations of  the  short  story  have  never  interested  me  greatly,  and 
in  its  own  field  this  short  fiction  sketch  is  memorable.  Its  secret 
is  the  secret  of  atmosphere  rather  than  speech,  but  atmosphere 
here  becomes  human  in  its  reality  and  the  resultant  effect  is  not 
unlike  that  of  "When  Hannah  Var  Eight  Yar  Old"  by  Miss 
Girling,  which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  a  few  years  ago. 
"  John  Breck,"  or  Elizabeth  C.  A.  Smith,  to  reveal  her  author- 
ship, has  found  complete  embodiment  for  her  conception  in  this 
.story  for  the  first  time,  and  it  is  a  promise  for  a  vivid  and  inter- 
esting future. 

6.  The  Flying  Teuton  by  Alice  Brown  (Harper's  Magazine) 
is  the  best  short  story  that  has  come  out  of  this  war  as  yet  in 
either  English  or  American  magazines.  Accepting  the  old  legend 
of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  Miss  Brown  has  imagined  it  reembodied 
in  a  modern  setting,  and  out  of  the  ironies  of  this  situation  a 
most  dramatic  story  results  with  a  sure  and  true  message  for  the 
American  people.  It  is  in  my  opinion  one  of  the  five  best  short 
stories  of  the  year,  and  I  am  happy  to  say  that  it  will  soon  be 
accessible  to  the  public  once  more  in  book  form. 


532  THE   YEARBOOK 

7.  Closed  Doors,  and  8.  A  Cup  of  Tea  by  Maxwell  Struthers 
Burt  (both  in  Scribner's  Magazine).  In  these  two  stories  and  in 
"  The  Glory  of  the  Wild  Green  Earth,"  "  John  O'May,"  and 
"  Le  Panache,"  all  of  which  appeared  in  Scribner's  Magazine 
during  the  past  year,  a  place  is  made  for  the  author  among 
American  short  story  writers  beside  that  of  Mrs.  Gerould,  Wil- 
bur Daniel  Steele,  and  H.  G.  Dwight.  Two  years  ago  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  reprinting  his  first  short  story,  '"  The  Water-Hole," 
in  "  The  Best  Short  Stories  of  191 5."  I  thought  at  that  time  that 
Mr.  Burt  would  eventually  do  fine  things,  but  I  never  suspected 
that,  in  the  short  period  of  two  years,  he  would  win  for  himself 
so  important  a  place  in  contemporary  American  letters.  Mr. 
Burt's  technique  is  still  a  trifle  over-sophisticated,  but  I  suppose 
this  is  a  fault  on  virtue's  side.  A  collection  of  Mr.  Burt's  short 
stories  in  book  form  should  be  anxiously  awaited  by  the  Ameri- 
can public. 

9.  Lonely  Places,  and  10.  The  Long  Vacation  by  Francis 
Buzsell  (The  Pictorial  Review).  The  attentive  reader  of  Ameri- 
can fiction  must  have  already  noted  two  memorable  stories  by 
Francis  Buzzell  published  in  previous  years,  "  Addie  Erb  and 
Her  Girl  Lottie  "  and  "  Ma's  Pretties."  These  two  stories  won 
for  Mr.  Buzzell  an  important  position  as  an  American  folk- 
writer,  and  this  position  is  amply  sustained  by  the  two  fine  stories 
which  he  has  published  during  the  past  year.  His  imaginative 
realism  weaves  poignant  beauty  out  of  the  simplest  and  most 
dusty  elements  in  life,  and  it  is  my  belief  that  it  is  along  the  lines 
of  his  method  and  that  of  Miss  Babcock  that  America  is  most 
likely  eventually  to  contribute  something  distinctively  national  to 
the  world's  literary  culture. 

11.  The  Mistress  by  Fleta  Campbell  (Harper's  Bazar)  is.  a 
most  highly  polished  and  sharply  outlined  story  of  the  war.  It 
makes  an  art  out  of  coldness  in  narration  which  serves  to  em- 
phasize and  bring  out  by  contrast  the  human  warmth  of  the 
story's  substance. 

12.  The  Foundling  by  Gunnar  Cederschiold! (ColWer's  Weekly). 
Readers  who  recall  the  fine  series  of  stories  by  Alden  Brooks 
published  during  the  past  two  years  in  Collier's  Weekly  and  the 
Century  Magazine  will  find  in  "  The  Foundling "  a  story  equally 
memorable  as  a  ruthless  portrayal  of  the  effects  of  war.  Whether 
one  approves  or  disapproves  in  general  of  the  ending  is  irrelevant 
in  this  case.  This  story  must  take  its  place  as  one  of  the  best 
dozen  stories  of  the  war. 

13.  Boys  Will  Be  Boys,  14.  The  Family  Tree,  and  15.  Qual- 
ity Folks  by  Irvin  S.  Cobb  (all  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post). 
It  is  seven  years  since  Irvin  Cobb  published  his  first  short  story, 
"  The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm,"  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. 
During  that  short  period  he  has  passed  from  the  position  of  an 


SIXTY-THREE   AMERICAN    STORIES     533 

excellent  journalist  to  that  of  America's  most  representative 
humorist,  in  the  truer  meaning  of  that  word.  Upon  him  the 
mantle  of  Mark  Twain  has  descended,  and  with  that  mantle  he 
has  inherited  the  artistic  virtues  and  the  utter  inability  to  criti- 
cize his  own  work  that  was  so  characteristic  of  Mr.  Clemens. 
But  the  very  gusto  of  his  creative  work  has  been  shaping  his 
style  during  the  past  two  years  to  a  point  where  he  may  now 
fairly  claim  to  have  mastered  his  material,  and  to  have  found  the 
most  effective  human  persuasiveness  in  its  presentation.  Our 
grandchildren  will  read  these  three  stories,  and  thank  God  that 
there  was  a  man  named  Cobb  once  born  in  Paducah,  Kentucky. 

16.  Laughter  (Harper's  Magazine),  and  17.  Our  Dog  (Pic- 
torial Review)  by  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie.  The  rapid  rise  of 
Mr.  Dobie  in  less  than  two  years  from  the  date  when  his  first 
short  story  was  published  challenges  comparison  with  the  similar 
career  of  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt.  As  Mr.  Burt's  art  has  its 
analogies  with  that  of  Mrs.  Gerould,  so  Mr.  Dobie's  art  has  its 
analogies  with  that  of  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele.  I  am  not  certain 
that  Mr.  Dobie's  talent  is  not  essentially  that  of  a  novel-writer, 
but  certainly  at  least  four  of  the  short  stories  which  he  has  pub- 
lished during  the  past  year  are  notable  artistic  achievements  in 
widely  different  moods.  If  tragedy  prevails,  it  is  purified  by  a 
fine  spiritual  idealism,  which  takes  symbols  and  makes  of  them 
something  more  human  than  a  mere  allegory.  If  an  American 
publisher  were  courageous  enough  to  start  publishing  a  series  of 
volumes  of  short  stories  by  contemporary  American  writers,  he 
could  not  do  better  than  to  begin  with  a  selection  of  Mr.  Dobie's 
tales. 

18.  A  Little  Nipper  of  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor  by  Norman 
Duncan  (Pictorial  Review).  This  story  has  a  melancholy  inter- 
est, because  it  was  the  last  story  sold  by  its  author  before  his 
sudden  death  last  year.  But  it  would  have  been  remembered  for 
its  own  sake  as  the  last  and  not  the  least  important  of  the  long 
series  of  Newfoundland  sagas  which  Mr.  Duncan  has  given  us. 
It  shows  that  Norman  Duncan  kept  his  artistic  vigor  to  the  last, 
and  those  who  know  Newfoundland  can  testify  that  such  stories 
as  these  will  always  remain  its  most  permanent  literary  record. 

19.  The  Emperor  of  Elam  by  H.  G.  Dwight  (The  Century 
Magazine).  Those  who  have  read  Mr.  Dwight's  volume  of  short 
stories  entitled  "  Stamboul  Nights  "  do  not  need  to  be  told  that 
Mr.  Dwight  is  the  one  American  short  story  writer  whom  we 
may  confidently  set  beside  Joseph  Conrad  as  a  master  in  a  similar 
literary  field.  American  editors  have  been  diffident  about  pub- 
lishing his  stories  for  reasons  which  cast  more  discredit  on  the 
American  editor  than  on  Mr.  Dwight,  and  accordingly  it  is  a 
genuine  pleasure  to  encounter  "  The  Emperor  of  Elam,"  and  to 
chronicle  the  hardihood  of  the  editor  of  the  Century  Magazine. 


534  THE   YEARBOOK 

The  story  is  a  modern  odyssey  of  adventure,  set  as  usual  in  the 
Turkish  background  with  which  Mr.  Dwight  is  most  familiar. 
In  it  atmosphere  is  realized  completely  for  its  own  sake,  and  as 
a  motive  power  urging  the  lives  of  his  characters  to  their  in- 
evitable end. 

20.  The  Gay  Old  Dog  by  Edna  Ferber  (Metropolitan  Maga- 
zine) is  in  my  opinion  the  big  story  which  "  The  Eldest "  was 
not.  It  is  my  belief  that  Edna  Ferber  is  a  novelist  first  and  a 
short  story  writer  afterwards,  but  in  "  The  Gay  Old  Dog  "  she 
has  accepted  a  theme  which  can  best  be  handled  in  the  short  story 
form  and  has  made  the  most  of  it  artistically,  much  as  Fannie 
Hurst  has  done  in  all  of  her  better  stories.  Miss  Ferber  has  not 
sentimentalized  her  substance  as  she  does  most  often,  but  has  let 
it  remain  at  its  true  valuation. 

21.  Bread-Crumbs  by  Waldo  Frank  (Seven  Arts  Magazine). 
I  cannot  help  feeling  that  this  is  an  extremely  well  written  and 
honestly  conceived  story  whose  substance  is  essentially  false,  but 
the  author  has  apparently  persuaded  himself  of  its  truth  and  pre- 
sents it  almost  convincingly  to  the  reader.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Mr.  Frank  has  not  failed  to  make  his  two  characters  real  for  us, 
and  the  poignancy  of  their  final  revelation  is  certainly  genuine. 
Mr.  Frank,  however,  should  save  such  material  as  this  for  longer 
fiction,  as  his  method  is  essentially  that  of  a  novelist. 

22.  Pearls  Before  Swine  by  Cornelia  Throoj)  Geer  (Atlantic 
Monthly).  With  a  quiet  and  somewhat  reticent  art,  the  author 
of  this  story  has  succeeded  in  deftly  conveying  to  her  readers  a 
delicate  pastoral  scene  of  innocence  reflecting  the  dreams  of  two 
little  Irish  children.  It  was  a  difficult  feat  to  attempt,  as  few  can 
safely  reproduce  the  atmosphere  of  an  alien  race  successfully, 
and,  even  to  Irish-Americans,  Ireland  cannot  be  sufficiently  real- 
ized for  creative  embodiment.  I  am  told  that  a  volume  of  Irish 
stories  is  promised  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Geer,  and  it  should  take 
its  place  with  the  better  folk  stories  of  modern  Irish  life.  Miss 
Geer's  method  is  the  result  of  identification  with,  rather  than  con- 
descension toward,  her  subject. 

23.  East  of  Eden  (Harper's  Magazine),  24.  The  Hand  of  Jim 
Fane  (Harper's  Magazine),  25.  The  Knight's  Move  (Atlantic 
Monthly),  26.  The  Wax  Doll  (Scribner's  Magazine),  and  27. 
What  They  Seem  (Harper's  Magazine)  by  Katharine  Fullerton 
Gerould.  In  these  five  short  stories  Mrs.  Gerould  amply  sustains 
her  claim  to  rank  as  one  of  the  three  most  distinguished  contem- 
porary writers  of  the  American  short  story.  Preoccupied  as  she 
is  with  the  subtle  rendering  of  abnormal  psychological  situations, 
her  work  is  in  the  great  traditional  line  whose  last  completely 
adequate  exponent  was  Henry  James.  One  and  all,  these  stories 
have  the  fascination  of  strange  spiritual  adventure,  and  the  per- 
suasiveness   of    her    exposition    conceals    inimitably    the    closely 


SIXTY-THREE    AMERICAN    STORIES     535 

woven  craftsmanship  of  her  work.  Of  these  five  stories,  "  The 
Knight's  Move  "  and  "  East  of  Eden  "  surely  represent  a  develop- 
ment in  her  art  which  it  will  be  almost  impossible  for  her  to 
surpass. 

28.  Dare's  Gift  by  Ellen  Glasgow  (Harper's  Magazine).  I 
prefer  to  beg  the  question  whether  this  is  a  short  story  or  a  very 
short  novel.  It  certainly  has  the  unity  of  a  well-defined  spiritual 
incident,  and  if  one  recalls  its  substance,  it  is  only  to  view  it  as  a 
completely  rounded  whole.  As  such  it  is  surely  as  fine  a  study  of 
the  influence  of  place  as  Mrs.  Wharton's  "  Kerfol  "  or  Mrs.  Pang- 
born's  "  Bixby's  Bridge."  The  brooding  atmosphere  of  a  house 
mindful  of  its  past  and  reacting  upon  successive  inmates  morally, 
or  perhaps  immorally,  has  seldom  been  more  faithfully  rendered. 

29.  The  Hearing  Ear  (Harper's  Magazine),  and  30.  A  Jury 
OF  Her  Peers  (Every  Week)  by  Susan  Glaspell.  It  is  always  in- 
teresting to  study  the  achievement  of  a  novelist  who  has  won  dis- 
tinction deservedly  in  that  field,  when  that  novelist  attempts  the 
very  different  technique  of  the  short  story.  It  is  particularly  in- 
teresting in  the  case  of  Susan  Glaspell,  because  with  these  two 
stories  she  convinces  the  reader  that  her  future  really  lies  in  the 
short  story  rather  than  in  the  novel.  Few  American  writers  have 
such  a  natural  dramatic  story  sense,  and  to  this  Susan  Glaspell 
has  added  an  increasing  reticence  in  the  portrayal  of  her  charac- 
ters. In  these  two  stories  you  will  not  find  the  slightest  senti- 
mentalization  of  her  subject  matter,  nor  is  it  keyed  so  tightly  as 
some  of  her  previous  work.  "  A  Jury  of  Her  Peers  "  is  one  of 
the  better  folk  stories  of  the  year,  sharing  that  distinction  with 
"  The  Excursion  "  by  Miss  Babcock  and  the  two  stories  by  Fran- 
cis Buzzell,  of  which  I  have  spoken  above. 

31.  His  Father's  Flag  by  Armistead  C.  Gordon  (Scribner's 
Magazine).  The  many  readers  who  have  revelled  in  Mr.  Gor- 
don's admirable  portraits  of  Virginia  negro  plantation  life  will 
be  surprised  and  gratified  at  Mr.  Gordon's  venture  in  this  story 
into  a  new  field.  This  story  has  all  the  infectious  emotional  feel- 
ing of  memory  recalling  glorious  things,  and  I  can  only  compare 
it  for  its  spiritual  fidelity  toward  a  cause  to  the  stories  by  Elsie 
Singmaster  which  she  has  gathered  into  her  volume  about  Gettys- 
burg, and  particularly  to  that  fine  story,  "  The  Survivors." 

32.  The  Bunker  Mouse,  and  33.  "  Molly  McGuire,  Four- 
teen "  by  Frederick  Stuart  Greene  (The  Century  Magazine). 
Captain  Greene's  story  "  The  Cat  of  the  Cane-Brake  "  attracted 
so  much  attention  at  the  time  of  its  publication  in  the  Metropoli- 
tan Magazine  a  year  ago  that  it  is  interesting  to  find  him  achiev- 
ing high  distinction  in  other  imaginative  fields.  Captain  Greene's 
natural  gift  of  narrative  is  the  result  of  a  strong  impulse  toward 
creative  expression,  which  molds  its  form  a  little  self-consciously, 
but  convincingly,  for  the  most  part.    I  think  that  he  is  at  his  best 


536  THE   YEARBOOK 

in  these  two  stories  rather  than  in  "  The  Cat  of  the  Cane-Brake  " 
and  "  The  Black  Pool,"  because  they  are  based  upon  a  more  direct 
apprehension  and  experience  of  life.  "  Molly  McGuire,  Four- 
teen "  adds  one  more  tradition  to  those  of  the  Virginia  Military 
Institute. 

34.  Rainbow  Pete  by  Richard  Matthews  Hallet  (The  Pictorial 
Review)  reveals  the  author  in  his  most  incorrigibly  romantic 
mood.  Mr.  Hallet  casts  glamour  over  his  creations,  partly 
through  his  detached  and  pictorial  perception  of  life,  and  partly 
through  the  magic  of  his  words.  He  has  been  compared  to  Con- 
rad, and  in  a  lesser  way  he  has  much  in  common  with  the  author 
of  "  Lord  Jim,"  but  his  artistic  method  is  essentially  different  and 
quite  as  individual. 

35.  Frazee  by  Lee  Foster  Hartman  (Harper's  Magazine).  Mr. 
Hartman  has  been  a  good  friend  to  other  story  writers  for  so  long 
that  we  had  begun  to  forget  how  fine  an  artist  he  can  be  himself. 
In  "  Frazee  "  he  has  taken  a  subject  which  would  have  fascinated 
Mrs.  Gerould  and  handled  it  with  reserve  and  power.  It  is 
pitched  in  a  quieter  key  than  is  usual  in  such  a  story,  and  the 
result  is  that  character  merges  with  atmosphere  almost  imper- 
ceptibly. I  regard  the  story  as  almost  a  model  of  construction 
for  students  of  short  story  writing. 

36.  Four  Days  by  Hetty  Hemenway  (Atlantic  Monthly),  This 
remarkable  story  of  the  spiritual  effect  of  the  war  upon  two 
young  people  was  so  widely  commented  upon,  not  only  after  its 
appearance  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  but  later  when  it  was  re- 
published in  book  form,  that  I  shall  only  commend  it  to  the 
reader  here  as  an  artistically  woven  study  in  war  psychology. 

37.  Get  Ready  the  Wreaths  by  Fannie  Hurst  (Cosmopolitan 
Magazine).  The  artistic  qualities  in  Miss  Hurst's  work  which 
have  commended  themselves  to  such  disinterested  critics  as  Mr. 
Howells  are  revealed  once  more  in  this  story,  in  which  Miss 
Hurst  accepts  the  shoddiness  of  background  which  characterizes 
her  literary  types,  and  reveals  the  fine  human  current  that  runs 
beneath  it  all.  I  am  not  sure  that  Miss  Hurst  has  not  diluted  her 
substance  a  little  too  much  during  the  past  year,  and  in  any  case 
that  danger  is  implicit  in  her  method.  But  in  "  Get  Ready  the 
Wreaths  "  the  emotional  validity  of  her  substance  is  absolutely 
unimpeachable  and  her  handling  of  the  situation  it  presents  is 
adequate  and  fine. 

38.  Journey's  End  by  Percy  Adams  Hutchison  (Harper's 
Magazine).  An  attentive  reader  of  the  American  short  stories 
during  the  past  few  years  may  have  observed  with  interest  at 
rare  intervals  the  work  of  Mr.  Hutchison.  In  it  there  was  always 
a  promise  of  an  achievement  not  unlike  that  of  Perceval  Gibbon, 
but  a  certain  looseness  of  texture  prevented  Mr.  Hutchison  from 
being  completely  persuasive.     In   "  Journey's  End,"  however,  it 


SIXTY-THREE   AMERICAN    STORIES     537 

must  be  confessed  that  he  has  written  a  memorable  sea  story  that 
is  certainly  equal  at  least  to  the  better  stories  in  Mr.  Kipling's 
latest  volume. 

39.  The  Strange-Looking  Man  by  Fanny  Kemble  Johnson 
(The  Pagan).  I  suppose  that  this  story  is  to  be  regarded  as  a 
sketch  rather  than  a  short  story,  but  in  any  case  it  is  a  vividly 
rendered  picture  of  war's  effects  portrayed  with  subtle  irony  and 
quiet  art.  I  associate  it  with  "  Chautonville  "  by  Will  Levington 
Comfort,  and  "  The  Flying  Teuton  "  by  Alice  Brown,  as  one  of 
the  three  stories  with  the  most  authentic  spiritual  message  in 
American  fiction  that  the  war  has  produced. 

40.  The  Sea-Turn  by  £•.  Clement  James  (The  Seven  Arts). 
In  this  study  of  the  spiritual  reactions  of  a  starved  environment 
upon  an  imaginative  mind,  Mrs.  Jones  has  added  a  convincing 
character  portrait  to  American  letters  which  ranks  with  the  better 
short  stories  of  J.  D.  Beresford  in  a  similar  genre.  The  story 
is  in  the  same  tradition  as  that  of  the  younger  English  realists, 
but  it  is  an  essential  contribution  to  our  nationalism,  and  as  such 
helps  to  point  the  way  toward  the  future  in  which  a  true  national 
literature  must  find  its  only  and  inevitable  realization. 

41.  The  Caller  in  the  Night  by  Burton  Kline  (The  Strat- 
ford Journal).  I  believe  that  Mr.  Kline  has  completely  realized 
in  this  story  a  fine  imaginative  situation  and  has  presented  a  folk 
story  with  a  significant  legendary  quality.  It  is  in  the  tradition 
of  Hawthorne,  but  the  substance  with  which  Mr.  Kline  deals  is 
the  substance  of  his  own  people,  and  consequently  that  in  which 
his  creative  impulse  has  found  the  freest  scope.  It  may  be  com- 
pared to  its  own  advantage  with  "  The  Lost  Phoebe  "  by  Theo- 
dore Dreiser,  which  was  equally  memorable  among  the  folk- 
stories  of  1916,  and  the  comparison  suggests  that  in  both  cases 
the  author's  training  as  a  novelist  has  not  been  to  his  disadvan- 
tage as  a  short-story  teller. 

42.  When  Did  You  Write  Your  Mother  Last?  by  Addison 
Lewis  (Reedy's  Mirror).  This  is  the  only  story  I  have  read  in 
three  years  in  which  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  found  the  authentic 
voice  of  "  O.  Henry  "  speaking.  Mr.  Lewis  has  been  publishing 
a  series  of  these  "  Tales  While  You  Wait  "  in  Reedy's  Mirror 
during  the  past  few  months,  and  I  should  much  prefer  them  to 
those  of  Jack  Lait  for  the  complete  success  with  which  he  has 
achieved  his  aims.  Imitation  of  "  O.  Henry  "  has  been  the  curse 
of  American  story-telling  for  the  past  ten  years,  because  "  O. 
Henry  "  is  practically  inimitable.  Mr.  Lewis  is  not  an  imitator, 
but  he  may  well  prove  before  very  long  to  be  "  O.  Henry's  "  suc- 
cessor. In  the  words  of  Padna  Dan  and  Micus  Pat,  "  Here  's  the 
chance  for  some  one  to  make  a  discovery." 

43.  Widow  La  Rue  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters  (Reedy's  Mirror). 
This  is  the  best  short  .story  in  ver.se  that  the  year  has  produced. 


538  THE   YEARBOOK 

and  as  literature  it  realizes  in  my  belief  even  greater  imaginative 
fulfilment  than  "  Spoon  River  Anthology."  I  should  have  most 
certainly  wished  to  include  it  in  "The  Best  Short  Stories  of  1917" 
had  it  been  in  prose,  and  it  adds  one  more  unforgettable  legend  to 
our  folk  imagination. 

44.  The  Understudy  by  Johnson  Morton  (Harper's  Magazine) 
is  an  ironic  character  study  developed  with  much  finesse  in  the 
tradition  of  Henry  James.  Its  defect  is  a  certain  conventional 
atmosphere  which  demands  an  artificial  attitude  on  the  part  of 
the  reader.  Its  admirable  distinction  is  its  faithful  rendering  of 
a  personality  not  unlike  the  "  Tante  "  of  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick, 
if  a  novel  portrait  and  a  short  story  portrait  may  fittingly  be 
compared.  If  the  portraiture  is  unpleasant,  it  is  at  any  rate  ren- 
dered with  incisive  kindliness. 

45.  The  He.^rp  of  Life  by  Meredith  Nicholson  (Scribner's 
Magazine).  Mr.  Nicholson  has  treated  an  old  theme  freshly  in 
"  The  Heart  of  Life  "  and  discovered  in  it  new  values  of  con- 
trasting character.  Among  his  short  stories  it  stands  out  as 
notably  as  "  A  Hoosier  Chronicle  "  among  his  novels.  It  is  in 
such  work  as  this  that  Mr.  Nicholson  justifies  his  calling,  and  it 
is  by  them  that  he  has  most  hope  of  remembrance  in  American 
literature. 

46.  Murder?  by  Seumas  O'Brien  (The  Illustrated  Sunday 
Magazine).  With  something  of  Hardy's  stark  rendering  of  at- 
mosphere, Mr.  O'Brien  has  portrayed  a  grim  situation  unfor- 
gettably. Woven  out  of  the  simplest  elements,  and  with  an  entire 
lack  of  literary  sophistication,  his  story  is  fairly  comparable  to 
the  work  of  Daniel  Corkery,  whose  volume,  "  A  Munster  Twi- 
light," has  interested  me  more  than  any  other  volume  of  short 
stories  published  in  America  this  year.  The  story  is  of  particular 
interest  because  Mr.  O'Brien's  reputation  as  an  artist  has  been 
based  solely  upon  his  work  as  a  satirist  and  Irish  fabulist. 

47.  The  Interval  by  Vincent  O' Sullivan  (Boston  Evening 
Transcript).  It  is  odd  to  reflect  that  a  literary  artist  of  Mr. 
O'Sullivan's  distinction  is  not  represented  in  American  magazines 
during  1917  at  all,  and  that  it  has  been  left  to  a  daily  newspaper 
to  publish  his  work.  In  "  The  Interval,"  Mr.  O'Sullivan  has 
sought  to  suggest  the  spiritual  effect  of  the  war  upon  a  certain 
type  of  mind.  He  has  rendered  with  faithful  subtleness  the 
newly  aroused  longing  for  religious  belief  or  some  form  of  con- 
crete spiritual  expression  that  bereavement  brings.  This  state 
has  a  pathos  of  its  own  that  the  author  adequately  realizes  in  his 
story,  and  his  irony  in  portraying  it  is  Gallic  in  its  quality. 

48.  Bixby's  Bridge  by  Georgia  Wood  Pangborn  (Harper's 
Magazine).  Mrs.  Pangborn  is  well  known  for  her  artistic  stories 
of  the  supernatural,  and  this  will  rank  among  the  very  best  of 
them.     She  shares  with   .Mgernon  Blackwood  that  gift  for  mak- 


SIXTY-THREE    AMERICAN    STORIES     539 

ing  spiritual  illusion  real  which  is  so  rare  in  contemporary  work. 
What  is  specially  distinctive  is  her  gift  of  selection,  by  which  she 
brings  out  the  most  illusive  psychological  contrasts. 

49.  "A  Certain  Rich  Man  — ,"  by  Lawrence  Perry  (Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine).  I  find  in  this  story  an  emotional  quality  keyed 
up  as  tightly,  but  as  surely,  as  in  the  best  short  stories  by  Mary 
Synon.  Remote  as  its  substance  may  seem,  superficially,  it 
touches  the  very  heart  of  the  experience  that  the  war  has  brought 
to  us  all,  and  reveals  the  naked  stuff  out  of  which  our  war  psy- 
chologj'  has  emerged. 

50.  The  Portrait  by  Emery  Pottle  (The  Touchstone).  This 
study  in  Italian  backgrounds  is  by  another  disciple  of  Henry 
James,  who  portrays  with  deft  sure  touches  the  nostalgia  of  an 
American  girl  unhappily  married  to  an  Italian  nobleman.  It  just 
fails  of  complete  persuasiveness  because  it  is  a  trifle  overstrung, 
but  nevertheless  it  is  memorable  for  its  artistic  sincerity. 

51.  The  Path  of  Glory  by  Mary  Brecht  Pulver  (Saturday 
Evening  Post).  This  story  of  how  distinction  came  to  a  poor 
family  in  the  mountains  through  the  death  of  their  son  in  the 
French  army  is  simply  told  with  a  quiet,  unassuming  earnestness 
that  makes  it  very  real.  It  marks  a  new  phase  of  Mrs.  Pulver's 
talent,  and  one  which  promises  her  a  richer  fulfilment  in  the 
future  than  her  other  stories  have  suggested.  Time  and  time 
again  I  have  been  impressed  this  year  by  the  folk  quality  that  is 
manifest  in  our  younger  writers,  and  what  is  most  encouraging 
is  that,  when  they  write  of  the  poor  and  the  lowly,  there  is  less 
of  that  condescension  toward  their  subject  than  has  been  charac- 
teristic of  American  folk-writing  in  the  past. 

52.  Miss  Fothergill  by  Norval  Richardson  (Scribner's  Maga- 
zine). The  tradition  in  English  fiction,  which  is  most  signally 
marked  by  "  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  "  Cranford,"  and  "  Barchester 
Towers,"  and  which  was  so  pleasantly  continued  by  the  late 
Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  and  by  Margaret  Deiand,  is  admirably  em- 
bodied in  the  work  of  this  writer,  whose  work  should  be  better 
known.  The  quiet  blending  of  humor  and  pathos  in  "  Miss 
Fothergill  "  is  unusual. 

53.  The  Scar  Th.-vt  Tripled  by  William  Gunn  Shepherd 
(Metropolitan  Magazine)  is  none  the  less  truly  a  remarkable 
short  story  because  it  happens  to  be  based  on  fact.  "  The  De- 
serter "  was  the  last  fine  short  story  written  by  the  late  Richard 
Harding  Davis,  and  "  The  Scar  That  Tripled  "  is  the  engrossing 
narrative  of  the  adventure  which  suggested  that  story.  Person- 
ally, I  regard  it  as  superior  to  "  The  Deserter." 

54.  A  Country  Christmas  by  Grant  Showerman  (Century 
Magazine).  Professor  Showerman's  country  chronicles  are  now 
well  known  to  American  readers,  and  this  is  quite  the  best  of 
them.     These  sketches  rank  with  those  of  Hamlin  Garland  as  a 


540  THE    YEARBOOK 

permanent  and  delightful  record  of  a  pioneer  life  that  has  passed 
away  for  ever.  Their  deliberate  homeliness  and  consistent  reflec- 
tion of  a  small  boy's  attitude  toward  life  have  no  equal  to  my 
knowledge. 

55,  The  Christmas  Angel  (The  Pictorial  Review),  and  56.  The 
Flag  of  Eliphalet  (Boston  Evening  Transcript)  by  Elsie  Sing- 
master  add  two  more  portraits  t»  the  pleasant  gallery  of  Elsie 
Singmaster's  vivid  creations.  Although  her  vein  is  a  narrow  one, 
no  one  is  more  competent  than  she  in  its  expression,  and  few  sur- 
pass her  in  the  faithful  rendering  of  homely  but  none  the  less 
real  spiritual  circumstance. 

57.  The  End  of  the  Road  by  Gordon  Arthur  Smith  (Scribner's 
Magazine)  is  a  sequel  to  "  Feet  of  Gold  "  and  chronicles  the  fur- 
ther love  adventures  of  Ferdinand  Taillandy,  and  their  tragic 
conclusion.  In  these  two  stories  Mr.  Smith  has  proven  his  lit- 
erary kinship  with  Leonard  Merrick,  and  these  stories  surely  rank 
with  the  chronicles  of  Tricotrin  and  Pitou. 

58.  Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman  (Pictorial  Review),  59.  Ked's 
Hand  (Harper's  Magazine),  60.  White  Hands  (Pictorial  Re- 
view), and  61.  The  Woman  at  Seven  Brothers  (Harper's  Maga- 
zine) by  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele.  With  these  four  stories,  together 
with  "  A  Devil  of  a  Fellow,"  "  Free,"  and  "  A  Point  of  Honor," 
Mr.  Steele  assumes  his  rightful  place  with  Katharine  Fullerton 
Gerould  and  H.  G.  Dwight  as  a  leader  in  American  fiction.  "  Ching, 
Ching,  Chinaman,"  "  White  Hands,"  and  "  The  Woman  at  Seven 
Brothers  "  are,  in  my  belief,  the  three  best  short  stories  that  were 
published  in  191 7,  by  an  American  author,  and  I  may  safely  pre- 
dict their  literary  permanence.  Mr.  Steele's  extraordinary  gift 
for  presenting  action  and  spiritual  conflict  pictorially  is  unrivalled, 
and  his  sense  of  human  mystery  has  a  rich  tragic  humor  akin  to 
that  of  Thomas  Hardy,  though  his  philosophy  of  life  is  infinitely 
more  hopeful. 

62.  None  so  Blind  by  Mary  Synon  (Harper's  Magazine)  is  a 
study  in  tragic  circumstance,  the  more  powerful  because  it  is  so 
reticently  handled.  It  is  Miss  Synon's  first  profound  study  in 
feminine  psychology,  and  reveals  an  unusual  sense  of  emotional 
values.  Few  backgrounds  have  been  more  subtly  rendered  in 
their  influence  upon  character,  and  the  action  of  the  story  is  in- 
evitable despite  its  character  of  surprise. 

63.  The  Scar  by  Elizabeth  Stead  Taber  (The  Seven  Arts). 
The  brutal  realism  of  this  story  may  repel  the  reader,  but  its 
power  and  convincing  quality  cannot  be  gainsaid.  So  many 
writers  have  followed  John  Fox's  example  in  writing  about  the 
mountaineers  of  the  Alleghanies,  that  it  is  gratifying  to  chronicle 
so  exceptional  a  story  as  this.  It  is  as  inevitable  in  its  ugliness 
as  "  The  Cat  of  the  Cane-Brake  "  by  Frederick  Stuart  Greene, 
and  psychologically  it  is  far  more  convincing. 


MAGAZINE   AVERAGES   FOR   1917 

The  following  table  includes  the  averages  of  American  periodi- 
cals published  during  1917.  One,  two,  and  three  asterisks  are  em- 
ployed to  indicate  relative  distinction.  "  Three-asterisk  stories  " 
are  of  somewhat  permanent  literary  value.  The  list  excludes 
reprints. 


PERIODICALS 


American  Magazine 

Atlantic  Monthly 

Bellman 

Bookman 

Boston  Evening  Transcript . . 

Century 

Collier's  Weekly 

Delineator 

Everybody's  Magazine 

Every  Week 

Forum 

Good  Housekeeping 

Harper's  Magazine 

Illustrated  Sunday  Magazine 

Ladies'  Home  Journal 

Masses  (except  Oct.  and  Nov.) 

McClure's  Magazine 

Metropolitan 

Midland 

New  Republic 

New  York  Tribune 

Outlook 

Pagan 

Pictorial  Review 

Reedy's  Mirror 

Saturday  Evening  Post .... 

Scribner's  Magazine 

Seven  Arts 

Smart  Set 

Stratford  Journal 

Sunset  Magazine 

Touchstone 


NO.   OF 
STORIES 

PUB- 
LISHED 


54 
20 
47 

5 

6 
SO 
108 
46 
45 
87 

6 
40 
80 
25 
33 
II 
45 
43 
22 

5 
30 
18 
II 
42 
32 
235 
6s 
23 
107 
10 
32 
IS 


NO.    OF 
DISTINCTIVE 

STORIES 
PUBLISHED 


25 
17 
34 

5 
6 
40 
51 
18 
26 
18 
4 
12 
64 


6 
9 
16 


26 
18 
62 
52 


17 
4 
6 
29 
22 
5 
7 
5 
I 

9 
39 
4 
4 
3 
4 


18 
10 
25 
31 
19 


4 

14 

3 

7 

16 

14 

3 

9 


PERCENTAGE  OF 
DISTINCTIVE 

STORIES 
PUBLISHED 


* 

*• 

46 

6 

8s 

55 

72 

36 

100 

80 

100 

100 

80 

58 

47 

20 

39 

II 

S8 

IS 

21 

6 

67 

17 

30 

23 

80 

49 

40 

16 

33 

12 

54 

27 

20 

9 

37 

19 

95 

77 

100 

40 

73 

23 

56 

44 

72 

72 

62 

43 

S6 

31 

21 

II 

80 

48 

96 

83 

20 

II 

100 

100 

19 

0 

100 

67 

*•* 


25 

4 

20 

33 

34 

3 

4 

7 

2 

17 

13 

34 

4 

3 


13 

6 

36 

33 

9 

3 

25 

69 

3 

90 


542  THE   YEARBOOK 

The  following  tables  indicate  the  rank,  during  igiy,  by  number 
and  percentage  of  distinctive  stories  published,  of  the  nineteen 
periodicals  coming  within  the  scope  of  my  examination  which 
have  published  during  the  past  year  over  twenty-five  stories  and 
which  have  exceeded  an  average  of  15%  in  stories  of  distinction. 
The  lists  exclude  reprints. 

BY   PERCENTAGE  OF  DISTINCTIVE   STORIES 

1.  Harper's   Magazine 80% 

2.  Scribner's  Magazine 80% 

3.  Century  Magazine 80% 

4.  New  York  Tribune 73% 

5.  Bellman 72% 

6.  Pictorial  Review 62% 

7.  Everybody's  Magazine 58% 

8.  Reedy's  Mirror 56% 

9.  Collier's  Weekly 47% 

TO.  American  Magazine 46% 

11.  Delineator 39% 

12.  Metropolitan  Magarzine 37% 

13.  Ladies'  Home  Journal s;ii% 

14.  Good  Housekeeping 30% 

15.  Saturday  Evening  Post 21% 

16.  Every  Week 21% 

17.  Smart  Set 20% 

18.  McClure's  Magazine 20% 

19.  Sunset  Magazine 19% 

BY   NUMBER  OF  DISTINCTIVE  STORIES 

1.  Harper's  Magazine 64 

2.  Saturday  Evening  Post 62 

3.  Scribner's  Magazine 52 

4.  Collier's  Weekly 51 

5.  Century  Magazine 40 

6.  Bellman 34 

7.  Everybody's  Magazine 26 

8.  Pictorial  Review 26 

9.  American  Magazine 25 

10.  New  York  Tribune 22 

11.  Smart  Set 22 

12.  Reedy's  Mirror 18 

13.  Delineator 18 

14.  Every  Week 18 

15.  Metropolitan  Magazine 16 

16.  Good  Housekeeping 12 


MAGAZINE    AVERAGES    FOR    1917        543 

17.  Ladies'  Home  Journal 11 

18.  McClure's  Magazine 9 

19.  Sunset  Magazine 6 

The  following  periodicals  have  published  during  igi7  ten  or 
more  "  two-asterisk  stories."  The  list  excludes  reprints.  Periodi- 
cals represented  in  this  list  during  1915  as  well  are  indicated  by 
an  asterisk.  Periodicals  represented  in  this  list  during  1916  are 
indicated  by  a  dagger. 

1.  *tHarper's  Magazine 39 

2.  *tScribner's  Magazine 31 

3.  *tCentury  Magazine 29 

4.  *tSaturday  Evening  Post 25 

5.  *tCollier's  Weekly ' 20 

6.  Seven  Arts ."  .     I9 

7.  tPictorial  Review 18 

8.  Midland 17 

9.  *tBellman 17 

10.  *tSmart  Set 12 

11.  Atlantic  Monthly .     li 

12.  Touchstone 10 

The  following  periodicals  have  published  during  igiy  five  or 
more  "  three-asterisk  stories."  The  list  excludes  reprints.  Periodi- 
cals represented  in  this  list  during  igis  as  well  are  indicated  by  an 
asterisk.  Periodicals  represented  in  this  list  during  igi6  are  in- 
dicated by  a  dagger. 

1.  *tHarper's  Magazine 27 

2.  *tCentury  Magazine 17 

3.  *tScribner's  Magazine 16 

4.  Seven  Arts 14 

5.  tPictorial  Review 14 

6.  Stratford  Journal      a 

7.  *tSaturday  Evening  Post 7 

8.  Atlantic  Monthly 5 

9.  *  Metropolitan 5 

10.       Good  Housekeeping 5 

Ties  in  the  above  lists  have  been  decided  by  taking  relative  rank 
in  other  lists  into  account. 


INDEX  OF  SHORT  STORIES  FOR  1917 


All  short  stories  published  in   the  following  magazines  and 
newspapers  during  igij  are  indexed. 


American  Magazine 

Atlantic  Monthly 

Bellman 

Bookman 

Boston  Evening  Transcript 

Century 

Collier's  Weekly 

Current  Opinion 

Delineator 

Everybody's  Magazine 

Every  Week 

Forum 

Harper's  Magazine 

Illustrated  Sunday  Magazine 

Ladies'  Home  Journal 

Little  Review  (except  Oct.) 

Masses  (Jan.-Sept.) 

McQure's  Magazine 

The  October  and  November  issues  of  the  Masses  are  not  listed, 
as  they  were  not  procurable  through  ordinary  channels.  The 
October  issue  of  the  Russian  Review  was  not  yet  published  when 
this  book  went  to  press.  The  October  issue  of  the  Little  Review 
was  zuithdrawn  from  circulation  before  it  could  come  to  my 
notice. 

Short  stories,  of  distinction  only,  published  in  the  following 
magazines  and  newspapers  during  igiy  are  indexed. 


Metropolitan 

Midland 

New  Republic 

New  York  Tribune 

Outlook 

Pictorial  Review 

Poetry 

Pagan 

Reedy 's  Mirror 

Russian  Review  (Jan.-July) 

Saturday  Evening  Post 

Scribner's  Magazine 

Seven  Arts 

Stratford  Journal 

Sunset  Magazine 

Touchstone 

Yale  Review 


Black  Cat 
Boston  Herald 
Colonnade 
Cosmopolitan 
Good  Housekeeping 
Harper's  Bazar 
Hearst's  Magazine 
Live  Stories 
McCall's  Magazine 
Milestones 


Munsey's  Magazine 

Parisienne 

Pearson's  Magazine 

Short  Stories 

Smart  Set 

Snappy  Stories 

Southern  Woman's  Magazine 

To-day's  Housewife 

Woman's  Home  Companion 

Youth's  Companion 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  545 

Certain  stories  of  distinction  published  in  the  following  maga- 
zines and  newspapers  during  igiy  are  indexed,  because  they  have 
been  called  to  my  attention  by  authors  or  readers. 

All-Story  Weekly  Queen's  Work 

Art  World  Saucy  Stories 

Ainslee's  Magazine  Top-Notch  Magazine 

Dernier  Cri  Woman's  World 

Detective  Story  Magazine,  Young's  Magazine 
Los  Angeles  Times 

The  Red  Book  Magazine  is  not  represented  in  these  lists,  in 
deference  to  the  zvishes  of  its  editor,  who  sent  me  the  following 
telegram:  "  We  prefer  not  to  be  listed." 

One,  two,  or  three  asterisks  are  prefixed  to  the  titles  of  stories 
to  indicate  distitiction.  Three  asterisks  prefixed  to  a  title  indicate 
the  more  or  less  permanent  literary  value  of  a  story,  and  entitle 
it  to  a  place  on  the  annual  "  Rolls  of  Honor."  An  asterisk  before 
the  name  of  an  author  indicates  that  he  is  not  an  American. 

The  following  abbreviations  are  used  in  the  index:  — 

Ain Ainslee's  Magazine 

All  ..'. All- Story  Weekly 

Am American  Magazine 

Atl Atlantic  Monthly 

Art  W Art  World 

B.  C Black  Cat 

Bel Bellman 

B.  E.  T Boston  Evening  Transcript 

B.  Her Boston  Herald 

Cen Century 

CO Current  Opinion 

Col Collier's  Weekly 

Colon Colonnade 

Cos Cosmopolitan 

Del Delineator 

Det Detective  Story  Magazine 

Bv Everybody's  Magazine 

E.  W Every  Week 

For Forum 

G.  H Good  Housekeeping 

Harp.  B Harper's  Bazar 

Harp.  M Harper's  Magazine 

Hear Hearst's  Magazine 

I.  S.  M Illustrated  Sunday  Magazine 

L.  A.  Times Los  Angeles  Times 

L.  H.  J Ladies'  Home  Journal 


546  THE   YEARBOOK 

Lit.  R Little  Review 

L.  St Live  Stories 

McC McClure's  Magazine 

McCall McCall's  Magazine 

Met Metropolitan 

Mid Midland 

Mir Reedy's  Mirror 

Mun Munsey's  Magazine 

A'^.  Rep New  Republic 

A'^.  V.  Trib New  York  Tribune 

Outl Outlook 

Pag Pagan 

Par Parisienne 

Pear Pearson's  Magazine 

Pict.  R Pictorial  Review 

Q.  W Queen's  Work 

(/?.)    (Reprint) 

Rus.  R Russian  Review 

Sau.  St Saucy  Stories 

Scr Scribner's  Magazine 

S.  E.  P Saturday  Evening  Post 

Sev.  A Seven  Arts 

Sh.  St Short  Stories 

^M.  St Snappy  Stories 

So.  Wo.  M Southern  Woman's  Magazine 

5".  5" Smart  Set 

Strat.  J Stratford  Journal 

Sun Sunset  Magazine 

To-day  To-day's  Housewife 

Top-Notch    Top-Notch  Magazine 

Touch Touchstone 

IV.  H.  C Woman's  Home  Companion 

IVom.  W Woman's  World 

Yale    Yale  Review 

Y.  C Youth's  Companion 

Young    Young's  Magazine 


Abbott,  Frances  C. 
♦♦Memorial  Window,  The.    Del.    Nov. 
Mrs.  Bodkin's  Debut.    Del.    June. 

♦Abdullah,  Achmed.  (Achmed  Abdullah  Nadir  Khan  el- 
DuRANi  el-Iddrissyeh.)  ("  A.  A.  Nadir.")  (i88i-  .) 
(See  igi5  and  1916.)  (See  also  Uzzell,  Thomas  H.,  and  Ab- 
dullah. Achmed.) 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  547 

♦As  He  Reaped.    Ain.    July. 
♦Consider  the  Oath  of  M'Taga.    All.    March  lo. 
♦Disappointment.    All.    May  19. 
♦East  or  West?    Top-Notch.    April  15. 
♦Five-Dollar  Gold-Piece,  The.    Sn.  St.    Dec.  18. 
♦♦Gamut,  The.    S.  S.    Dec. 
♦♦Gentlemen  of  the  Old  Regime,  A.    S.  S.    Feb. 
♦Guerdon,  The.     S.  S.     Feb. 
♦♦Home-Coming,  The.    Harp.  M.    May. 
♦♦Letter,  The.    S.  S.    Jan. 
♦♦Silence.    All.    April  21. 
Adams,  Katharine. 

♦"  Silent  Brown."    So.  Wo.  M.    Oct. 
Adams,  Minnie  Barbour.     {See  1916.) 

♦Half  a  Boy.    Pict.  R.    Sept. 
Adams,  Samuel  Hopkins.     (1871-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Letter  to  Nowhere,  A.    E.  W.    Feb.  12. 
♦Little  Red  Doctor  of  Our  Square,  The.    Col.    Aug.  25. 
♦Meanest  Man  in  Our  Square,  The.    Col.    March  24. 
♦Paula  of  the  Housetop.    Col.    July  7. 
♦Room  "  12  A."    Ev.     Nov. 
"  Wamble  :  His  Day  Out."    Col.    Jan.  13. 

Adler,  Henry. 

Coward,  The.    Pag.    Sept. 
♦AiCARD,  Jean.     (1848-        .) 

♦Mariette's.Gift.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Feb.  18. 

Alexander,  Mary. 

Ashamed  of  Her  Parents.    Del.    Nov. 

Girl  Who  Is  Not  Popular,  The.    Del.    May. 

How  Can  I  Meet  the  Right  Sort  of  Men?    Del.    March. 

Out  of  Touch  With  Life.    Del.    Oct. 

Too  Sure  of  Herself.    Del.    July. 

When  She  Runs  After  the  Boys.    Del.    Aug. 

Allen,  Frederick  Lewis.     (See  igJS) 

Big  Game.    Cen.    March. 

Fixing  Up  the  Balkans.    Cen.    May. 

Small  Talk.    Cen.    Feb. 
Allen,  Loraine  Anderson. 
♦♦Going  of  Agnes,  The.    Touch,    Sept. 

Allendorf,  Anna  Stahl. 

♦Dallying  of  Celia  May,  The.    G.  H.    July. 
♦♦Leavening  of  St.  Rupert,  The.    G.  H.    June. 
"  Amid,  John."    (M.  M.  Stearns.)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦Alone.     Det.     Sept.  25. 


548  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦Busted  Poor.    All.    Dec.  8. 

Freeze,  The.    Mid.    Aug. 
♦Interlude.     Young.    April. 
♦Prern  Singh.    Bel.    Dec.  i. 
♦♦♦Professor,  A.    Mid.    Nov. 

Strachan's  Hindu.    Bel.    Oct.  27. 

Anderson,  Sherwood.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦"Mother."    Sev.    A.    March. 
♦♦♦Thinker,  The.    Sev.  A.    Sept. 
♦♦♦Untold  Lie,  The.    Sev.  A.    Jan. 

Anderson,  William  Ashley.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Unwrit  Dogma,  The.    Ev.    Dec. 

Andrade,  Cipriano,  Jr. 

♦Applied  Hydraulics.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  25. 

Andrews,  Mary  Raymond  Shipman.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Blood  Brothers.    Scr.    May. 
♦♦♦Return  of  K.  of  K.,  The.    McC.    March. 
♦Russian,  The.    Milestones.    Oct. 

♦Andreyev,  Leonid  Nikolaevich.     (1871-        .)     (See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Lazarus.    Strat.  J.    June. 

Anonymous. 

Apparition,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.     Nov.  11. 
Coeur  de  Lion.    N.  Y.  Trib.    July  22. 
♦♦♦Evocation,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    April  22. 
Eyes  of  the  Soul,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Feb.  25. 
Fools.    Mir.    Sept.  28. 
♦♦♦"  Huppdiwupp."    Lit.  R.    Jan. 
♦Pipe,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Nov.  4. 
♦♦Poilu's  Dream  on  Christmas  Eve,  The.    B.  Her.    Dec.  23. 
♦Rendezvous,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Sept.  30. 
♦♦Slacker  with  a  Soul,  A.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Sept.  16. 
♦Spirit  of  Alsace,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Mav  6. 
♦Voice  of  the  Church  Bell,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Oct.  21. 
War  Against  War.    McC.    April-May. 
When  Lulu  Made  Trouble.    Mir.    May  18. 

Arbuckle,  Mary. 

Freedom  and  Robbie  May.    Sun.    Nov. 

Armstrong,  William. 

Cupid  in  High  Finance.    Del.    Sept. 

Ashe,  Elizabeth.    (See  1915.) 
♦Appraisement.    Atl.    March. 

♦Assis,  Mack  ado  de.     (1839-1908.)     (See  1916.) 
** Attendant's  Confession,  The.     (R.)     Strat.  J.    Dec. 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  549 

♦AUERNHEIMER,  RaOUL.      (1876-  .) 

♦Demonstrating  That  War  Is  War.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Jan.  28. 

♦AuMONiER,  Stacy.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***In  the  Way  of  Business.    Pict.  R.    March. 
***Packet,  The.    Col.    May  26. 
***"  Them  Others."    Cen.    Aug. 

Austin,  F.  Britten.    (See  19 15.) 
**ZuBefehl!    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  i. 


Babcock,  Edwina  Stanton.     {See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Excursion,  The.    Pict.  R.    Oct. 

Bacon,  Josephine  Daskam.     (1876-        .)     {See  191$  and  1916.) 

Comrades  in  Arms.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  27. 
♦Entrances  and  Exits.     Del.    Oct. 

Ghost  of  Rosy  Taylor,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 
♦Magic  Casements.    Del.    Nov. 

Square  Peggy.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  22. 
♦Year  of  Cousin  Quartus,  A.    Del.    Feb. 

Bailey  (Irene)  Temple.     {See  1915.) 
♦Red  Candle,  The.     Scr.    Dec. 

Baker,  Katharine.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Fifty-Cent  Kind,  The.    Atl.    April. 

Ball,  William  David. 

Man  Who  Paid,  The.    E.  W.    April  2. 

Balmer,  Edwin.     (1883-        .)     {See  1915.) 
Madcap.    Col.    Jan.  2y. 
S.  Orton.  Stockholder.    E.  W.    May  28. 
Telegraph  Trail,  The.    Col.    March  17. 
Thing  That  He  Did.  The.    L.  H.  J.    Jan. 
With  Sealed  Hood.    Col.    Sept.  22. 

Banks,  Helen  Ward. 

♦Mrs.  Pepper  Passes.    Y.  C.    April  5. 

♦Barbusse,  Henri. 
♦♦Paradis  Polishes  the  Boots.     {R.)     C.  O.    Dec. 

Barnard,  Floy  Tolbert.     (1879-        .)     {See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Surprise  in  Perspective,  A.    Harp.  M.    April. 

Barry,  Richard.     (1881-        .) 
Legacy,  The.    Del.    March. 

Bartlett,  Fbederick  Orin.     (1876-        .)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
Time  to  Go  to  Newport.    E.  W.    July  23. 


550  THE   YEARBOOK 

Bartley,  Nalbro. 

Benedict  fk  Company.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  13. 
Briggles  "  Goes  West."    S.  E.  P.    March  10. 
Have  a  Heart !    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
Reel  True.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  10. 
Total  Bewitcher,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  16. 
Town  Mouse,  The.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 
Bassett,  Willard  Kenneth. 

*End  of  the  Line,  The.    S.  S.    Oct. 
Bates,  Sylvia  Chatfield.     (See  1913  and  1916.) 
*Let  Nothing  You  Dismay.    W.  H.  C.    Dec. 
*Light  from  the  Holy  Hill.    Wom.  W.    Dec. 
♦Bazin,  Rene.    (1853-       .) 
***Mathurine's  Eyes.    Strat.  J.    March. 
Beach,  Roy. 

Cline's  Injunction.    Sun.    April. 
Beatty,  Jerome. 

"  Attaboy  I  "    McC.    March. 
Gee-Whiz  Guy,  The.    McC.    Aug. 
'■  Take  'Im  Out !  "  McC.    May. 
Bechdolt,  Frederick  R. 

Pecos  Kid,  The.    Col.    Jan.  6. 
Bechdolt,  Jack. 

Black  Widow's  Mercy,  The.     (R.)     Mir.    Feb.  16. 
Beer,  Thomas.     (1889-        .) 
***Brothers,  The.    Cen.    Feb. 
***Onnie.    Cen.    May. 
**Rescuer,  The.    S.  E.  P^    Aug.  11. 
Behrman,  S.  N. 
**Coming  of  the  Lord,  The.    Touch.    Oct. 
**Song  of  Ariel.    Sev.  A.    May. 

♦Beith,  Ian  Hay.     {See  "Hay,  Ian."). 

*Bell,  J(ohn)  J(oy).     (1871-        .)     {See  igis  and  1916.) 

**Wanted  —  A  Pussy-Mew.    Bel.    March  3. 
Bell,  Lilian  (Lida).    (1867-        .) 

Mrs.  Galloway  Goes  Shopping.    Del.    Sept. 
Mrs,  Galloway  Tries  to  Reduce.    Del.    Nov. 
Benefield,  Barry.     {See  19 15  and  1916.) 
***Simply  Sugar  Pie.     (/?.)     I.  S.  M.    April  29. 
Benet,  William  Rose.     (1886-        .) 

But  Once  a  Year.    Cen.  Dec. 
Bennet-Thompson,   Lillian.     {See   Thompson,   Lillian   Ben- 
net-.) 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES 


DO' 


*Benson,  Edward  Frederic.     (1867-       .) 

*"  Through."    Cen.    July. 
Benson,  Ramsey.     (1866-        .) 

*Shad's  Windfall.    B.  C.    March. 
♦Beresford,  John  Davys.    (1873-       .)     (See  1916.) 
***Escape,  The.    Sev.  A.    Feb. 
***Little  Town,  The.    Sev.  A.    June. 
***Powers  of  the  Air.    Sev.  A.    Oct. 
Berry,  John.     (See  1916.) 

*Clod,  The.    B.  C.    April. 
Betts,  Thomas  Jeffries.     (See  1916.) 

**Alone.    Scr.    May. 
Biggers,  Earl  Derr.     (1884-        .)     (See  1916.) 

Each  According  to  His  Gifts.    S.  E.  P.    April  14. 
Same  Old  Circle.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
Soap  and  Sophocles.    McC.    July. 
*"  Birmingham,    George    A."     (Canon    James    O.    Hannay.) 
(1865-       .)     (See  1915-) 
*Von  Edelstein's  Mistake.    McC.    Nov. 
Blair,  Gertrude. 

Water-Witch,  The.     Scr.    May. 
Bledsoe,  Joe. 

♦Fuzz.    B.  C.    May. 
Blythe,  Samuel  G. 

Der  Tag  for  Us.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  22. 
Boggs,  Russell  A. 

Boomer  from  the  West,  The.    S.  E.  P.    April  28. 
Booth,  Frederick.     (See  1916.) 

**Cloud-Ring,  The.    Sev.  A.    April. 
Bottome,  Phyllis.    (See  1916.) 
***"  Ironstone."    Cen.    March. 
Bourne,  Randolph. 

♦Ernest,  or  Parent  for  a  Day.    Atl.    June. 
♦Boutet,  Frederic. 

♦Convalescent's  Return,  The.     N.  Y.  Trib.    Dec.  30. 
♦♦♦Medallion,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Oct.  28. 
♦Messenger,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Aug.  12. 
♦Promise,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Sept.  2. 
Bower,  B.  M.,  and  Connor,  Buck.     (See  1916.) 
Go-Between,  The.    McC.    March. 
Red  Ride,  The.    McC.    May. 
BoYER,  Wilbur  S. 

♦Bum  Throwers.    Ev.    June. 


552  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦Getting  Even  with  Geo'gia.    Ev.    April. 
*One  Week  of  Kelly.    Ev.    March. 
*There  's  Many  a  Shp.    Ev.    Nov. 
*BoYES,  Dan. 

Lilium  Giganteum.     (R.)     Mir.    Feb.  i6, 
BovKiN,  Nancy  Gunter. 

*Christmas  Medley,  A.    Met.    Jan. 
Leavings.    E.  W.    Dec.  3. 
Retta  Rosemary.    E.  W.    July  16. 
Brady,  Elizabeth. 

*Ladislav  Saves  the  Day.    Q.  W.    Nov. 
Brady,  Mariel.     {See  1916.) 

Thermopylae.    Bel.    Oct.  6. 
Braley,  Berton.  (See  19 15.) 

Stuff  of  Dreams,  The.    Del.    Aug. 

*Braz,  Anatole  Le.     (See  Le  Braz,  Anatole.) 

"  Breck,  John."     (Elizabeth  C.  A.  Smith.) 
***From  Hungary.     Bookman.     Dec. 

**Man  Who  was  Afraid,  The.    Ev.    Sept. 
Brooks,  Alden.    (See  1916.) 
**Man  From  America,  The.    Gen.    July. 
***Three  Slavs,  The.    Col.    May  5. 
Brown,  Alice.     (1857-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Flying  Teuton,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 
***Nemesis.    Harp.  M.    April. 

*Preaching  Peony,  The.    Harp.  M.    June. 
Brown,  Bernice. 

**Last  of  the  Line,  The.    E.  W.    Nov.  5. 
Brown,  Katharine  Holland.     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
Millicent :  Maker  of  History.    Scr.    June. 
**0n  a  Brief  Text  from  Isaiah.    Scr.    Feb. 
Brown,  Marion  Francis. 

♦Husks  and  Hawthorn.    So.  Wo.  M.    Aug. 
Brown,  Phyllis  Wyatt.    (Phyllis  Wyatt.)     (See  1916.) 
♦Checked  Trousers,  The.    Masses.    June. 
♦Extra  Chop,  The.    Cen.    Oct. 
Brown,  Royal. 

♦Seventy  Times  Seven.    McCall.    April. 
Brownell,  Agnes  Mary. 

♦Fifer,  The.    Y.  C.    June  28. 
Brubaker,  Howard.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Baby's  Place,  A.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
Cabbages  and  Queens.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  553 

Greeks  Bearing  Gifts.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
♦Ranny  and  the  Higher  Life.    Harp.  M.    June. 
Bruckman,  Clyde  A.    (See  1916.) 

Joe  Gum.    S.  E.  P.    May  5. 
Bryson,  Lyman.    {See  igis  and  1916.) 

**Under  a  Roof.    Mid.    July. 
Bulger,  Bozeman.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦Heart  of  the  System,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  6. 
Queen's  Mistake,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 
*Skin  Deep.    Ev.    March. 
Runner,  Anne. 

Road  to  Arcady,  The.    Ev.    July. 
Burnet,  Dana.     (1888-        .)     (See  19 15  and  1916,) 
♦Christmas  Fight  of  X  157.    L.  H.  J.    Dec. 
*Dub,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  17. 
***Fog.    (R.)    1.  S.  M.    April  i. 

Genevieve  and  Alonzo.    L.  H.  J.    March. 
**Sadie  Goes  to  Heaven.    G.  H.    Aug. 
**Sponge,  The.    Am.    Jan. 

Burnett,  Frances  Hodgson.    (1849-        .)     (See  1915.) 

♦♦White  People,  The.    Harp.  M.    Dec,  'i6-Jan.,  '17. 
♦Burrow,  C.  Kennett. 

♦Cafe  de  la  Paix,  The.    (R.)    Mir.    Sept  21. 
Burt,  Jean  Brooke. 

Way  of  the  West,  The.    Sun.    June. 

Burt,  Maxwell  Struthers.     (1882-        .)     (See  1915.) 
♦♦♦Closed  Doors.    Scr.    Nov. 
♦♦♦Cup  of  Tea,  A.    Scr.    Julv. 

♦♦♦Glory  of  the  Wild  Green  Earth,  The.    Scr.    Oct. 
♦♦♦John  O'May.    Scr.    Jan. 
♦♦♦Panache,  Le.    Scr.    Dec. 
BusBEY,  Katherine  Graves.     (1872-        .) 

♦♦Senator's  Son,  The.    Harp.  M.    March. 
Buss,  Kate  (Meldram). 
.    ♦♦Medals.    Mid.    May. 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker.     (1869-        .)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
Markley's  "  Size-Up  "  of  Dix.    Am.    July. 
Mutual  Spurs,  Limited.    S.  E.  P.    July  21. 
♦Red  Avengers,  The.    Am.    Jan. 
♦Scratch-Cat.    E.  W.    Feb.  26. 
Temporary  Receiver,  The.    Am.    Aug. 
♦Trouble  with  Martha,  The.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 
♦♦Wasted  Effort.    Am.    May. 


554  THE   YEARBOOK 

BuzzELL,  Francis.    (1882-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Lonely  Places.    Pict.  R.    Dec. 
***Long  Vacation,  The.    Pict.  R.    Sept. 

"  Byrne,  DoNN."    (Bryan  Oswald  Donn-Byrne.)     (1888-        .) 
(See  1915  and  1916.) 
**Day  After  Tomorrow.    McC.    Oct. 
Gryphon,  The.    S.  E.  P,    April  28. 
♦Prodigal  in  Utopia,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  8. 
♦♦Sound  of  Millstones,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 
♦Treasure  Upon  Earth,  A.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  3. 
♦Woman  in  the  House,  A.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 


♦Caine,  William.    (See  1916.) 
♦♦Spanish  Pride.    Cen.    Dec. 
Cameron,  Anne. 

Sadie's  Opportunity.    Am.    March. 

Cameron,    Margaret.      (Margaret   Cameron    Lewis.)      (1867- 
.)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Dolliver's  Devil.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
Camp  (Charles)  Wadsworth.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Veiled  Woman,  The.    Col.    Nov.  17. 

Campbell,    Fleta.      (1886-        .)      (See    19 15   and    1916   under 
Springer,  Fleta  Campbell.) 

♦♦Incompetent,  Irrelevant,  and  Immaterial.    Harp.  M.    May. 
♦♦Millward.    Harp.  M.    Oct. 
♦♦♦Mistress,  The.    Harp.  B.    Oct. 
Campbell,  Jay. 

♦♦Jim.    Scr.    Feb. 
Campen,  Helen  Van.     (See  Van  Campen,  Helen.) 
Carlton,  Augustus. 

♦Lady  from  Ah-high-ah,  The.    Mir.    Aug.  31. 
Carruth,  Gorton  Veeder. 

♦Chivalry  at  Goldenbridge.    Y.  C.    Aug.  30. 
Carver,  Ada  Jack.    (See  1916.) 

♦"  Joyous  Coast,  The."    So.  Wo.  M.    Sept. 
Casey,  Patrick  and  Terence.    (See  1915.) 
♦♦Kid  Brother,  The.    Col.    May  19. 

♦Castle,  Egerton.     (1858-        .) 

♦Guinea  Smuggler,  The.    Bel.    June  16. 
Castle,  Everett  Rhodes. 

Coats  Is  In.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  555 

Dark-Brown  Liquid,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  8. 
Harvest  Gloom.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  15. 
In  the  Movies  They  Do  It.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  29. 
Gather,  Willa  Sibert.     (1875-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 

**Gold  Slipper,  A.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
Gederschiold,  Gunnar. 
***Foundling,  The.    Col.    Oct.  27. 
Chamberlain,  George  *  Agnew.      (1879-       .)      (5"^^   1915  ond 

19 16.) 
***Man  Who  Went  Back,  The.    L.  H.  J.    June. 

Neutrality  and  Siamese  Cats.    S.  E.  P.    June  30. 
Chamberlain,  Lucia. 

Under  Side,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  11. 

Chambers,  Robert  William.     (1865-        .)     (See  19 15) 

*Brabangonne,  La.    Hear.    Feb. 
Channing,  Grace  Ellery.    (Grace  Ellery  Channing  Stetson.) 
(i86a-        .)     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
Out  of  the  Earth.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  18. 

♦Chekhov,  Anton.    {See  Tchekov,  Anton  Pavlovitch.) 

Chenault,  Fletcher. 

Strategy  Wins.    Col.    March  31. 

Young  Man  from  Texas,  The.    Col.    June  2^. 

Chester,  George  Randolph.    (1869-       .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 

Heavenly  Spat,  The.    Ev.    Jan. 
Child,  Richard  Washburn.    (1881-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Chasm,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  8. 
Eagle  Shannon  Assists  Mr.  Sleed.    Col.    May  12. 
Eagle  Shannon  Deals  a  Blow  at  Progress.    Col.    June  16. 
Eagle  Shannon  Gives  a  Treatment.    Col.    Feb.  10. 
Eagle  Shannon  Meets  the  Ivory  Woman.    Col.    April  14. 
*Faith.    E.  W.    Dec.  31. 
♦♦Forever  and  Ever.    Pict.  R.    April. 
God's  Laugh.    Col.    March  17. 
♦Hard  of  Head.    E.  W.    Jan.  22. 
Her  Boy.    E.  W.    Oct.  15. 
♦Her  Countenance.    Hear.    Oct. 
Love  Is  Love.    E.  W.    March  12. 
♦Chirikov,  Evgeniy. 
♦♦♦Past,  The.    Rus.  R.    Jan. 
Cleghorn,  Sarah  N(orcliffe).     (1876-       .) 
♦♦♦"  Mr.  Charles  Raleigh  Rawdon,  Ma'am."    Cen.    Feb. 

♦Clifford,  Sir  Hugh.    (1866-       .)     {See  1916.) 
**"  Our  Trusty  and  Well-Beloved."    Sh.  St.    April. 


556  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦Clifford,  Mrs.  W.  K.    {See  1915.) 

Quenching,  The.    Scr.     Jan.  f 

Closser,  Myra  Jo. 

**At  the  Gate.    Cen.    March. 
Cloud,  Virginia  Woodward. 

Boy  Without  a  Name,  The.    Bel.    June  30. 

Her  Arabian  Night.    Bel.    Aug.  11. 

Cobb,  Irvin  S(hrewsbury).     (1876-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Boys  Will  Be  Boys.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  20. 
***Cinnamon  Seed  and  Sandy  Bottom.    S.  E.  P.    June  9. 

*Ex-Fightin'  Billy.    Pict.  R.    June. 
***Family  Tree,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 
*Garb  of  Men,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  20. 
*Hark !    From  the  Tombs.    S.  E.  P.    April  14. 
Kiss  for  Kindness,  A.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
***Quality  Folks.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  24. 
Cocke,  Sarah  Johnson. 
**Men-Fokes'  Doin's.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  27. 
*Rooster  and  the  Washpot,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  2. 
Cody,  Rosalie  M.     {See  Eaton,  Jacquette  H.,  and  Cody,  Rosa- 
lie M.) 
Cohen,  Inez  Lopez.    {See  "  Lopez,  Inez.") 

Cohen,  Octavus  Roy.    (1891-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.)     {See 
also  Cohen,  Octavus  Roy,  and  Levison,  Eric.) 
**Fair  Play.    Col.    Nov.  24. 
Lot  for  a  Life,  A.    E.  W.    Jan.  i. 
Oil  and  Miss  Watters.    I.  S.  M.    July  8. 
*Partners.    Col.    May  5. 
Cohen,  Octavus  Roy  (1891-        ),  and  Levison,  Eric. 

*Pro  Patria.    Ev.    July. 
Collamore,  Edna  A. 

*Those  Twin  Easter  Hats.    Del.    April. 
Collins,  Dorothy. 

Honest  Mind,  An.    Pag.    March. 
Colton,  John. 

**0n  the  Yellow  Sea.    E.  W.    Nov.  26. 
Comfort,  Will  Levington.    (1878-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
**Lempke.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  3. 
*Lit  Up.    E.  W.    July  30. 
*Pale  Torrent,  The.    Touch.    June. 
*Plain  Woman,  The.    S.  E.  P.     Nov.  24. 
**Respectable  House,  A.    Touch.    Aug. 
♦Shielding  Wing,  The.    Hear.    April. 
**Woman  He  Loved,  The.    Touch.    Nov. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  557 

Condon,  Frank.    {See  1916.) 

Five,  Six,  Pick  Up  Sticks.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 
Ne  Coco  Domo.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
Nothing  But  Some  Bones.    Col.    Oct.  20. 
This  Way  Out.    S.  E.  P.    March  10. 
Water  on  the  Side.    Col.    April  28. 
Connolly,  James  Brendan.     (1868-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Breath  o'  Dawn.    Scr.    Sept. 
♦Bullfight,  The.    Col.    Feb.  10. 
Strategists,  The.    Scr.    July. 
Connor,  Brevard  Mays.     (6"^^  79/5  and  1916.) 

Desert  Rose,  The.    Sun.    Sept. 
Connor,  Buck.    {See  Bower,  B.  M.,  and  Connor,  Buck.) 
Connor,  Torrey. 
.    *"  Si,  Senor !  "    Sun.    March. 

*"  Conrad,  Joseph."     (Joseph  Conrad  Korzeniowski.)      (1857- 
.)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Warrior's  Soul,  The.    Met.    Dec. 
Converse,  Florence.     (1871-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 

Culprit,  The.    Atl.    Jan. 
Conway,  Norman. 

♦Cleansing,  The.    Masses.    June. 
Cook,  Mrs.  George  Cram.    {See  Glaspell,  Susan.) 
Cooke,  Marjorie  Benton.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
"  It  Might  Have  Happened."    Scr.    April. 
Morals  of  Peter,  The.    Am.    Aug. 
Cooper,  Courtney  Ryley. 
♦Congo.    Ev.    Nov. 
Ship  Comes  In,  The.    Pict.  R.    Nov. 
Corbin,  John.     (1870-       .) 

Father  Comes  Back.    Col.    June  23. 
Cornell,  Hughes.    {See  1916.) 

♦Holbrook  Hollow.    L.  A.  Times.    June  23. 
Cornish,  Reynelle  G.  E,,  and  Cornish,  Evelyn  N. 

♦Letter  of  the  Law,  The.    Outl.    July  4. 
CosTELLO,  Fanny  Kemble.     {See  Johnson,  Fanny  Kemble.) 
Couch,   Sir  Arthur  T.  Quii^er-.     (See  Quiller-Couch,   Sir 

Arthur  T.) 
Cowdery,  Alice.    {See  19 15.) 
♦♦♦Robert.    Harp.  M.    Feb. 
Crabb,  Arthur. 

Decision,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  8. 
Third  Woman,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  15. 


5S8  THE   YEARBOOK 

Crabbe,  Bertha  Helen.     (1887-        .)     {See  1916.) 

♦Lavender  Satin.    Y.  C.    Nov.  29. 
***Once  in  a  Lifetime.    Bel.    April  21. 

Cram,  Mildred  R.    {See  19 16.) 
♦Not  Quite  an  Hour.    S.  S.    Aug. 
♦♦Statuette,  The.    S.  S.    May. 

Crawford,  Charlotte  Holmes.    {See  1915.) 
♦♦Daughter  of  Nish,  A.    Col.    Jan.  20. 

Crissey,  Forrest.    {See  191$  and  1916.) 
Pretender,  The.    Harp.  M.    May. 

CuRTiss,  Philip  Everett.     (1885-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Colonel  Volunteers,  The.    Harp.  M.    Oct. 
Gods  and  Little  Fishes,  The.    E.  W.    Oct.  ^9. 
"  Overture  and  Beginners  !  "    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  13. 
Pioneers,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 

Curwood,  James  Oliver.    (1878-        .) 
♦Fiddling  Man,  The.    E.  W.    April  16. 


D 

Daly,  Alice  F. 

♦Aunt  Virginia's  Box.    Y.  C.    Nov.  22. 
♦Heirloom,  The.    Y.  C.    Dec.  6. 

Davies,  Marion. 

Runaway  Romany.    L  S.  M.    Sept.  16. 
Davis,  J.  Frank. 

♦Almanzar's  Perfect  Day.    E.  W.    Aug.  27. 
White  Folks'  Talk.    E.  W.    June  25. 
Davis,  Jacob. 

♦Striker,  The.    Mir.    July  27. 

Davis,  Rose  B. 

Bremington's  Job.    Sun.    March. 

Dawson,  (Francis)  Warrington.     (1878-        .) 
♦♦Man,  The.    Atl.    March. 

Delano,  Edith  Barnard.    {See  1915.) 

Social  Folks  Next  Door,  The.  ,L.  H.  J.    Nov. 

♦Delarue-Madrus,  Lucie. 
♦♦♦Death  of  the  Dead,  The.    Strat.  J,    Dec. 
Godmother,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Sept.  23. 
Godmother,  The.    (H.)     N.  Y.  Trib.    Oct.  14. 
Derieux,  Samuel  A.    {See  1916.) 

♦Destiny  of  Dan  VL  The.    Am.    March. 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  559 

Dickson,  Harris.    (1868-       .)     (See  1915  and  19 16.) 
Jigadier  Brindle,  The.    Col.    July  14. 
*Jigadier's  Drum,  The.    Col.    Sept.  29. 
*Left  Hind  Tail,  The.    Pict.  R.    Feb. 
Redpate  the  Rookie.    Col.    July  21. 
War  Trailer,  The.    Col.    Sept.  15. 
Divine,  Charles. 

*Last  Aristocrat,  The.    S.  S.    April. 

*Mrs.  Smythe's  Artistic  Crisis.    S.  S.    March. 

Dix,  Beulah  Marie.     (Mrs.  George  H.  Flebbe.)     (1876- 
(See  191 5  and  19 16.) 

**One  Who  Stayed,' The.    Harp.  B.    Sept. 
Dobie,  Charles  Caldwell.     (1881-        .)     (See  1916.) 
***Empty  Pistol,  The.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 
***Gift,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 
***Laughter.    Harp.  M.    April. 
***Our  Dog.    Pict.  R.    Nov. 
*Sign  Language,  The.    Harp.  M.    July. 
**Where  the  Road  Forked.    Harp.  M.    June. 

Dodge,  Henry  Irving.    (See  19 16.) 

•Skinner's  Big  Idea.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  15. 
Dodge,  Louis. 

**Wilder's  Ride.    Scr.    Dec. 
Dodge,  Mabel. 
♦♦♦Farmhands.    Sev.  A.    Sept. 

DORING,  WiNFIELD. 

Boy's  Night,  A.    L.  H.  J.    Jan. 
Doty,  Madeleine  Zabriskie.    (See  1915.) 
*Mutter,  Die.     (R.)     C.  O.    May. 

Douglas,  David.     (See  19 13.) 

Casey  Gets  a  Surprise.    McC.    Feb. 
Dounce,  Harry  Esty. 

**Garden  of  Proserpine,  The.    Cen.    Aug. 
*Doyle,  Sir  Arthur  Conan.    (1859-        .)     (See  1916.) 

**His  Last  Bow.    Col.    Sept.  22. 
♦"Doyle,  Lynn."     (Lewis  A.  Montgomery.) 

Compulsory  Service  in  BallyguUion.    Cen.    April. 
Draper,  John  W. 

♦Guilleford  Errant.    Colon.    March. 

Dreiser,  Theodore.    (1871-        .)     (See  1916.) 

♦Married.    Cos.    Sept. 
Driggs,  Laurence  La  Tourette. 

Battle  Royal,  The.    Outl.    Nov.  21. 


56o  THE   YEARBOOK 

Bridge  on  the  Oise,  The.    Outl.    Oct.  31. 
My  First  Submarine.    Outl.    Nov.  7. 
Strafing  Jack  Johnson.    Outl.    Dec.  5. 
Zeppelin  Raid  over  Paris,  A.    Outl.    Oct.  17. 
♦DuDENEY,  Mrs.  Henry.    (1866-        .)     {See  19 15  and  ig  16.) 
***Feather-bed,  The.    Harp.  M,    Oct. 
Duncan,  Norman.     (1871-1916.)     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
***Little  Nipper  o'  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor,  A.    Pict.  R.    May. 
♦Mohammed  of  the  Lion  Heart.    Del.    Aug. 
♦DuNSANY,    Edward    John    Moreton    Drax    Plunkett,    i8th 
Baron.    (1878-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***East  and  West.     (/?.)     Mir.    Jan.  19. 
***Gifts  of  the  Gods,  The.    (/?.)     Mir.    Oct.  5. 
***How  the  Gods  Avenged  Meoul  Ki  Ning.    S.  S.    Nov. 
♦During,  Stella  M. 

Top  Floor  Front,  The.    I.  S.  M.    Feb.  18. 
♦Dutton,  Louise  Elizabeth.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Paradise  Alley.    Met.    July. 
Poor  Butterfly.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  29. 
When  the  Half-Gods  Go.    S.  E.  P.    July  14. 
Dwight,  H(arry)  Griswold.    (1875-        .)     {See  I9i5and  1916.) 
***Emperor  of  Elam,  The.    Cen.    July. 
Dwyer,  James  Francis.     (1874-        .)     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 

**Land  of  the  Pilgrims'  Pride.    Col.    April  28. 
Dyer,  Walter  Alden.     (1878-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Annabel's  Goose.    Col.    Dec.  15. 
Mission  of  McGregor,  The.    Col.    Feb.  10. 
Dyke,  Catherine  Van.    {See  Van  Dyke,  Catherine.) 
Dyke,  Henry  van.    (5"^^  Van  Dyke,  Henry.) 


Eastman,  Max.    (1883-       .)     {See  1916.) 

**Lover  of  Animals,  A.    Masses.    April. 
Eaton,  Jacquette  H.,  and  Cody,  Rosalie  M. 

♦Thankful.    Y.  C.    Nov.  2± 
Eaton,  Walter  Prichard.     (1878-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Altitude.    E.  W.    Sept.  24. 
White-Topped  Boots,  The.    E.  W.    May  21. 

♦ECHEGARAY,  JoSE. 

♦Birth  of  the  Flowers,  The.     (/?.)    C.  O.    Jan. 
Edgar,  Randolph.    {See  1916.) 
♦♦Iron.    Bel.    May  26. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  561 

Edgelow,  Thomas.     {See  1916.) 

Whimsical  Tenderness,  A.    Scr.    April. 

Ellerbe,  Alma  Estabrook.     (See  1915  under  Estabrook,  Alma 
Martin.) 

*Brock.    Touch.    July. 
Ellerbe,  Rose  L. 

♦Peasant's  Revolt,  A.    Pear.    Nov. 

Evans,  Ida  May.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Brew  of  Ashes.    McC.    April. 
End  of  a  Perfect  Day,  The.    Col.    Sept.  i. 
Great  Little  Old  Understander,  A.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  20. 
Ideal  of  His  Dreams,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  10. 
Kimonos  and  Pink  Chiffon.    McC.    Dec. 
Leaves  of  Graft.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
Whither  Thou  Goest.    S.  E.  P.    May  26. 

You  Never  Can  Tell  What  a  Minister's  Son  Will  Do.  S.  E.  P. 
Aug.  25. 

♦"Eye-Witness."     (See  Swinton,  Lieut.-Col.  E.  D.) 


♦Farjeon,  J.  Jefferson. 

♦Sixpence.     (R.)     Mir.    Dec.  14. 
♦Farnol,  Jeffery. 

♦Absentee,  The.    Wom.  W.    June. 
Fawcett,  Margaret. 

Pursuit  of  Peter,  The.    Met.    June. 
Ferber,  Edna.     (1887-        .)     (See  1913  and  1916.) 
♦♦Cheerful  —  By  Request.    Col.    Nov.  24. 
♦♦♦Gay  Old  Dog,  The.    Met.    Oct. 

Ferris,  Eleanor.    (See  19 15.) 

♦Coup  de  Grace.    Cen.    Oct. 
Ferris,  Elmer  Ellsworth.    (1861-        .)     (5"^^  J915.) 

♦Helping  Out  Olaf.    Am.    April. 

Ferris,  Walter.     (See  1916.) 

Matter  of  Quality,  A.    Ev.    Sept. 
Finn,  Mary  M. 

Bentley's  Adventure  in  New  York.    Am.    Sept. 
Flower,  Elliott.    (1863-       .)     (5"^^  19 15.) 
♦Point  of  View,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 

Folsom,  Elizabeth  Irons.    (1876-        .)     (See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Kamerad.    Touch.    Oct.  ' 

♦♦When  the  Devil  Drives.     Pag.    July-Aug. 


562  THE   YEARBOOK     ' 

Ford,  Sewell.    (1868-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
All  the  Way  with  Anna.    E.  W.    Nov.  12. 
And.WiltThou,  Torchy?    E.  W.    Jan.  15. 
At  the  Turn  with  Wilfred.    E.  W.    Nov.  19. 
Back  with  Clara  Belle.    E.  W.    July  9. 
Carry-On  for  Clara,  A.    E.  W.    Oct.  22. 
Even  Break  with  Bradley,  An.    E.  W.    Jan.  29. 
Flicketty  One  Looks  On,  A.    E.  W.    Jan.  i. 
Little  Sully's  Double  Play.    E.  W.    June  li. 
On  the  Gate  with  Waldo.    E.  W.    Aug.  6. 
Qualifying  Turn  for  Torchy,  A.    E.  W.    April  30. 
Recruit  for  the  Eight-Three,  A.    E.  W.    May  28. 
Ringer  from  Bedelia,  A.    E.  W.    Aug.  20. 
Showing  Up  Brick  Hartley.    E.  W.    Feb.  26. 
Switching  Arts  on  Leon.    E.  W.    May  14. 
Time  Out  for  Joan.    E.  W.    March  26. 
Torchy  and  Vee  on  the  Way.    E.  W.    Feb.  12. 
Torchy  in  the  Gazinkus  Class.    E.  W.    June  25. 
Vee  Goes  Over  the  Top.    E.  W.    Dec.  10. 
Vee  with  Variations.    E.  W.    March  12. 
When  Torchy  Got  the  Call.    E.  W.    July  23. 
Where  Herm  Belonged  to  Be.    E.  W.    April  16. 

Foster,  Maximilian.     (1872-        .)     (See  1915.) 
Dollar  Bill,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  16. 
Fifi.    S.  E.  P.    July  7. 
Last  Throw,  The.     S.  E.  P.    Feb.  24. 
♦Wraiths.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 

Fox,  Edward  LvELL.    (1887-        .)     (See  19 15  and  ig  16.) 
*Man  and  the  Other  Man,  The.    L  S.  M.    March  18. 

Fox,  John  (William),  Jr.     (1863-        .) 
*Angel  from  Viper,  The.    Scr.    May. 
*Battle- Prayer  of  Parson  Small,  The.    Scr.    April. 
♦Compact  of  Christopher,  The.    Scr.    Feb. 
♦Courtship  of  Allaphair,  The.    Scr.    Jan. 
♦Goddess  of  Happy  Valley,  The.    Scr.    Oct. 
♦♦Lord's  Own  Level,  The.    Scr.    March. 
♦Marquise  of  Queensberry,  The.    Scr.    Sept. 
♦Pope  of  the  Big  Sandy,  The.    Scr.    June. 

Fox,  Paul  Hervev. 
♦♦Remembered  Hour,  The.    Bel.    June  2. 

Frank,  Waldo.     (1890-        .)     (See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Bread-Crumbs.     Sev.  A.    May. 
♦♦♦Candles  of  Romance,  The.    S.  S.    Feb. 
♦♦♦Rudd.    Sev.  A.    Aug. 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  563 

Freeman,   Mary   E.   Wilkins-.      (1862-        .)      {See   1915  and 

19 16.) 
***Boomerang,  The.    Pict.  R.    March. 

Both  Cheeks.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 
***Cloak  Also,  The.    JJarp.  M.    March, 
**Cross  Purposes,    (i?.)    1.  S.  M.    Nov.  25. 

*Liar,  The.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
***Ring  with  the  Green  Stone,  The.    Harp.  M.    Feb. 
♦Thanksgiving  Crossroads.    W.  H.  C.    Nov. 

*Freksa,  Friedrich.     (1882-        .) 

*"  Le  Chatelet  de  Madame."    N.  Y.  Trib.    Jan.  14. 

FuESSLE,  Newton  A.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Legal  Mind,  The.    Mir.    Nov.  23. 

FuLLERTON,  HuGH  Stewart.    {See  1916.) 
Bingles  and  Black  Magic.    Met.    May. 
Old  Ambish,  The.    Am.    July. 
Runarounds,  The.    Col.    April  14. 
Severe  Attack  of  the  Gerties,  A.    Am.    Oct. 
Taking  a  Reef  in  Tadpole.    Am.    April. 
World  Series  —  Mex.,  A.    Col.    Oct.  13. 

FuTRELLE,  (L.)  May  (Peel).    (Mrs.  Jacques  Futrelle.)     (1876- 
.)     {See  1915-) 
Late  Betsy  Baker,  The.    Ev.    May. 


Gale,  Annie  G. 

Out  of  Tophet.    Sun.    July. 

Gale,  Zona.     (1874-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Arpeggio  Courts.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 

Deal,  The.    E.  W.    Jan.  i. 
♦When  They  Knew  the  Real  Each  Other.    L.  H.  J.    May. 

♦Galsworthy,  John.    (1867-        .)     {See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
♦♦♦Defeat.    Scr.    Aug. 
♦♦♦Flotsam  and  Jetsam.     Scr.     Dec. 
♦♦♦Juryman,  The.    G.  H.    Sept. 

Gambier,  Kenyon. 

Huge  Black  One-Eyed  Man,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  23-30. 

Ganoe,  William  Addleman. 

♦Ruggs  —  R.  O.  T.  C.    Atl.    Dec. 

Garrett,  Caret.     (1878-        .) 

Gold  Token.  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  6. 


564  THE    YK\RBOOK 

Gates,  Eleakor.     (Mrs.  Frederick  Ferdinand  Moore.)     (1875- 

Tomboy.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  27. 
**Waiting  Soul,  The.    Harp.  B.    June. 

Gatlin,  Dana.     {See  1915  and  1916.)     {See  also  Gatlin,  Dana, 
and  Hately,  Arthur.) 

Full  Measure  of  Devotion,  The.    McC.    Nov. 
In  a  Japanese  Garden.    McC.    Jan. 
Let 's  See  What  Happens  Next !    McC.    Sept. 
Lovers  and  Lovers.    Col.    March  3. 
Orchids.    McC.    Dec. 
Rosemary's  Great  Wish.    Am.    April. 
*Spring  Mischief.    Met.    April. 
Where  Youth  Is  Also.    Col.    March  31. 
Wild  Roses.    McC.    June. 

Gatlin,  Dana,  and  Hately,  Arthur. 
"  Divided  We  Fall."    McC.    July. 
Gaunt,  Mary. 

Cyclone,  The.    For.    March-April. 
Geer,  Cornelia  Throop. 
***Pearls  Before  Swine.    Atl.    Oct. 
*George,  W.  L.    (1882-        .) 
***Interlude.    Harp.  M.    Feb. 
**Water.     (R.)     Mir.    Dec.  7. 

Gerould,  Katharine  Fullerton.     (1879-        •)     (See  1915  and 

19 16.) 
***East  of  Eden.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 
***Hand  of  Jim  Fane,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 
***Knight's  Move,  The.    Atl.    Feb. 
***Wax  Doll,  The.    Scr.    May. 
***What  They  Seem.    Harp.  M.    Sept. 
Gerrish,  Josette. 

Would-Be  Free  Lance,  The.    Met.    May. 

Gerry,  Margarita  Spalding.    (1870-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Berenice's  First  Dance.    L.  H.  J.    April. 
Flag  Factory,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Oct. 
Her  Record.    Pict.  R.    Feb. 
*Midwinter-Night's  Dream,  A.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 

*GiBB0N,  Perceval.     (1879-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 

**Plain  German.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  29. 
*GiBspN,  Wilfrid  Wilson. 
***News,  The.    Poetry.    Jan. 
GlESY,  J.  U. 

Strategy  of  Desperation,  The.    Del.    Nov. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  565 

GiFFORD,  Franklin  Kent.    (1861-       .) 

Along  Came  George.    L.  H.  J.    March. 
Gill,  Austin.     (See  1916.) 

Introducing  the  Auto  to  Adder  Gulch.    Col.    Jan.  6. 
GiLLMORE,  Inez  Haynes.  .  (See  Irwin,  Inez  Haynes.) 
Glasgow,    Ellen    (Anderson    Gholson.)       (1874-        .)       (See 
19 16.) 
***Dare's  Gift.    Harp.  M.    Feb.-March. 

Glaspell,    Susan     (Keating.)       (Mrs.    George    Cram    Cook.) 
(1882-        .)     (See  1915  and  igi6.) 
Everything  You  Want  to  Plant.    E.  W.    Aug.  13. 
***Hearing  Ear,  The.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
***Jury  of  Her  Peers,  A.    E.  W.    March  5. 
***Matter  of  Gesture,  A.    McC.    Aug. 

Gleason,  Arthur  Huntington.      (1878-        .)      (See  1915  and 
19 16.) 
♦♦Irishman,  The.    Cen.    Oct. 

Goetschius,  Marie  Louise.     (See  Van  Saanen,  Marie  Louise.) 
Golden,  Harry. 

End  of  the  Argument,  The.    Sun.    July. 
Goldman,  Raymond  Leslie. 

Smell  of  the  Sawdust,  The.    Col.    Sept.  15. 
Gordon,  Armistead  Churchill.     (1855-        .)      (5"^^   191$  and 
19 16.) 
***His  Father's  Flag.    Scr.    Oct. 
**Pharzy.    Scr.    March. 
Graeve,  Oscar.     (1884-        ).     (See  19 15  and  1916.) 

*Kamp.    McC.    May. 
Granich,  Irwin.    (5"^^  1916.) 

**God  Is  Love.    Masses.    Aug. 
Grant,  Ethel  Watts-Mumford.   (See  Mumford,  Ethel  Watts.) 
Gray,  David.    (1870-        .)     (See  1915.) 
Felix.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  17. 
Way  a  Man  Marries,  The.    Pict.  R.    July. 

Greene,  Frederick  Stuart.     (1870-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Bunker  Mouse,  The.    Cen.    March. 
***"  Molly  McGuire.  Fourteen."    Cen.    Sept. 
***Ticket  to  North  Carolina,  A.     (/?.)     I.  S.  M.    April  15. 
**"  Vengeance  Is  Mine  !  "    McC.    Sept. 
Green  man,  Frances. 

Impossible  Angela.    L.  H.  J.    June. 

Impossible  Angela  Discovers  That  a  Pretty  Girl  is  Visiting 
the  Jaspers.    L.  H.  J.    Aug. 


566  THE   YEARBOOK 

Grimes,  Katharine  Atherton. 
**Return  of  Michael  Voiret,  The,    So:  Wo.  M.    April, 

Grunberg,  Alfred. 

Maizie,  the  Magazine  Eater.    Met.    Jan. 

Guild,  Alexa. 

Farleigh's  Farewell.    I.  S.  M.    April  15. 

*GuLL,  Cyril  Arthur  Edward  Ranger.    (See  "  Thorne,  Guy.") 

GuRLiTZ,  Amy  Landon. 
**Eagle's  Nest,  The.    Ev.    May. 


H 

Haines,  Donal  Hamilton.    (1886-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
*Heels  of  Achilles,  The.    Bel.    March  10. 
*01d  Man  Who  was  Always  There,  The.    Bel.    Nov.  17. 

Hale,  Louise  Closser.     (1872-        .)     (See  19 15.) 
Measure  of  a  Man,  The.    Ev.    Dec. 
♦Parties  of  Maygie,  The.    Del.    Dec. 
♦Soldier  of  the  Footlights,  A.    McC.    Feb. 

"  Hall,  Holworthy."     (Harold  Everett  Porter.)     (1887- 
(See  1915  and  1916.) 
Between  Friends.    Ev.    Sept. 
"  Consolation."     Cen.    June. 
Diplomat,  The.    E.  W.    Jan.  8. 
Dormie  One.    Ev.    Feb. 
Grim  Visage,  The.    McC.  '  Oct. 
Iberia.    S.  E.  P.    March  31. 

"  H  You  Don't  Mind  My  Telling  You."    Cen.    Jan. 
Last  Round,  The.     Col.    May  i±. 
Man-Killer,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  to. 
Mouse-Traps.    McC.    Feb. 
Not  a  Chance  in  a  Thousand.    E.  W.    Dec.  24. 
Out  in  the  Open  Air.    Ev.    June. 
Persons  of  Rank.    McC.    Nov. 
Stingy !    S.  E.  P.    May  5. 
Straight  from  Headquarters.    Dec. 
Sunset.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  6. 
Turn  About.    E.  W.    Sept.  10. 
Wild  Bill  from  Texas.    Pict.  R.    Oct. 

Hall,  May  Emery. 

Countess'  Reincarnation,  The.    Del.    April. 

Hall,  Wilbur  Jay.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Elijah  and  the  Widow's  Cruiser.    Col.    Jan.  6. 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  567 

Matter  of  Pressure,  A.    S.  E.  P.    April  14. 
Maxim  —  Caveat  Emptor,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  22. 
Pronounced  Cwix-ot-ic.    Ev.    Dec. 
Typical  Westerner,  A.    Sun.    Aug. 

Hallet,  Richard  Matthews.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Rainbow  Pete.    Pict.  R.    Oct. 
Halsey,  Frederick. 

Up  —  Through  the  Garden.    Am.    May. 
♦Hamilton,  Cosmo.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Ladder  Leaning  on  a  Cloud,  The.    Del.    July. 
♦"  Steady  "  Hardy's  Christmas  Present.    G.  H.    Dec. 

Hamilton,  Gertrude  Brooke.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Bonnie  McGlint,  Late  of  Broadway.    Pict.  R.    May. 
Hot  .Coals.    E.  W.    March  26. 
♦Sons  of  God,  The.    G.  H.    Dec. 
Wax  Beauty,  The.    E.  W.    Dec.  17. 
♦Hannay,  Canon  James  O.     {See  "  Birmingham,  George  A.") 
Harger,  Charles  Moreau.     (1863-        .)     {See  1916.) 

Workman  No.  5,484.    Outl.    Oct.  10. 
♦Harker,  L(izzie)  Allen.     (1863-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦Misfit,  A.    Scr.    Dec. 
Harper,  Ralph  M. 

How  the  Rector  Recovered.    Outl.    Aug.  8. 
Harris, Corra  (May  White).    (Mrs.  L.  H.  Harris.)    (1869-        .) 
{See  1915  and  1916.) 
Her  Last  Affair.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  i. 
♦♦♦Other  Soldiers  in  France,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  3. 

Windmills  of  Love,  The.    Pict.  R.    Nov. 
Harris,  Kennett.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Crop  Failure  in  Sullivan,  A.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 

Jai  Alai.    Pict.  R.    April. 

Talismans.    S.  E.  P.    May  5. 

Vendetta  of  Bogue  Grenouille,  The.    S.  E.  P.    July  7. 

Hartman,  Lee  Foster.    (1879-        .)     {See  1915-) 

♦Consul  at  Paraminta,  The.    E.  W.    April  2. 
♦♦♦Frazee.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
Haskell,  Elizabeth  Louise. 

♦On  Duty.    Harp.  M.    May. 
Hately,  Arthur.    {See  Gatlin,  Dana,  and  Hately,  Arthur.) 
Hawes,  Charles  Boardman.     {See  1916.) 
Off  Pernambuco.    Bel.    July  21. 
♦♦On  a  Spring  Tide.    Bel.    Sept.  29. 
♦Patriots.     Bel.    June  9. 


568  THE    YEARBOOK 

♦Thanks  to  the  Cape  Cod  Finn.  B.  C.    May. 

**"  Within  That  Zone."    B.  E.  T.  Feb.  7. 

Hawkes,  Clarence.    (1869-        .)  (See  1916.) 
♦Angela.    (R.)    C.  O.    April. 

*"  Hay,  Ian."     (John  Hay  Beith.)     (1876-        .)     (See  1915.) 
Noncombatant,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 
♦Petit  Jean.    Ev.    April. 

Hecht,  Ben.    (See  1915.) 

♦Sort  of  a  Story,  A.    All.     Dec.  22. 
♦♦Unlovely  Sin,  The.    S.  S.    July. 
♦Woman  with  the  Odd  Neck,  The.    B.  C.    Nov.  \ 

♦Heine,  Anselma. 
♦♦♦Vision,  The.     Strat.  J.    Jan. 

Hemenway,  Hetty  Lawrence.    (Mrs.  Auguste  Richard.) 
♦♦Adolescence.    Cen.    June. 
♦♦♦Four  Days.    Atl.    May. 
Hendryx,  James  B. 

♦In  the  Outland.    Ev.    Oct. 
Henschen,  Sigmund. 

♦♦Christmas  in  the  Trenches.    I.  S.  M.    Dec.  23. 
Hepburn,  Elizabeth  Newport.     (See  19 16.) 
♦Elm  Tree  Ghosts,  The.    McCall.    Dec. 

Hergesheimer,  Joseph.    (1880-        .)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
Asphodel.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  4. 
Epheimer.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  3. 
♦♦Tol'able  David.    S.  E.  P.    July  14. 

Herrick,  Elizabeth.     (See  1915.) 
♦♦After  All.    Scr.    Feb. 
♦Canker  at  the  Root,  The.    Sn.  St.    Jan.  18. 

Hersey,  Harold. 
♦♦Dead  Book,  The.    Le  Dernier  Cri.    Feb.-March. 

Higgins,  Aileen  Cleveland.     (Mrs.  John  Archibald  Sinclair.) 

(1882-        .)     (See  19 16.) 

♦'Dopters.  The.    Bel.    Sept.  8. 
Higgins,  John. 

♦Man  Who  Was  Ninety-Nine,  The.    Mir.    Sept.  14. 
HiLLHOUSE,  A.  K. 

♦Sheba.    Sn.  St.    Nov.  4. 
HiNKLEY,  Laura  L. 

♦Magic  of  Dreams,  The.    W.  H.  C.    Feb. 
Hollingsworth,  Ceylon.    (5"^^  191$  and  1916.) 

♦Strong  Medicine.    Col.    Dec.  i. 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  569 

Hooper,  Samuel  Dike. 

Nemesis,  The.    Sun.    June. 
Hopper,  James  Marie.    (1876-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Enter  Charity.    Col.    July  21. 
**Last  Make-Believe,  The.    Col.    June  9. 
*Rice,  The.    Col.    June  30. 
Weight  Above  the  Eves.    Col.    Nov.  10. 
**Within  the  Swirl.    S".  E.  P.    July  7. 

HoRNE,  Margaret  Varnev  Van.     {See  Van  Horne,  Margaret 

Varney.) 
HoTCHKiss,  Chauncey  Crafts.    (1852-       .) 
Taking  of  Spitzendorf.    I.  S.  M.    Nov.  11. 
Test,  The.    I.  S.  M.    Sept.  16. 
Unexpected,  The.    I.  S.  M.    Oct.  14. 
Hough,  Emerson.    (1857-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

*Claxton,  O.  C.    Sun.    Dec. 
*HousMAN,  Laurence.     (1865-        .) 
***Inside-out.    Cen.    Aug. 
Houston,  Margaret  Belle. 

White  Diane,  The.    Met.    April. 
Howe,  Edgar  Watson.    (1854-       .) 

♦♦Stubborn  Woman,  The.    (/?.)    C.  O.    March. 
Howells,  William  Dean.    (1837-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦♦Tale  Untold,  A.    Atl.    Aug. 
HowLAND,  Arthur  Hoag. 

♦Governor  and  the  Poet,  The.    For.    Sept. 
HoYT,  Charles  A. 

♦Goddess  of  the  Griddle,  The.    Y.  C.    Nov.  29. 
Hubbard,  George,  and  Thompson,  Lillian  Rennet-.     (5"^^  also 
Thompson,  Lillian  Rennet-.) 
♦Coward,  The.    Sn.  St.    Nov.  4. 
Hubbard,  Philip  E. 

None  Rut  the  Rrave.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  20. 
Very  Temporary  Captain  McLean.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  3-10. 
Hughes,  Elizabeth  Rurgess.     (See  19 15.) 
Floods  of  Valpre.     Sn.  St.    Jan.  18. 

Hughes,  Rupert.    (1872-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦♦Oompah  Oompah,  The.    Hear.    Nov. 
Hull,  Alexander. 

♦♦New  Generation  Shall  Rise,  A.    E.  W.    Nov.  19. 
Hull,  George  Charles. 

♦"  Breathes  There  the  Man  —  ."     Scr.    July. 
Through  the  Eyes  of  Mary  Ellen.    Scr.    March. 


570  THE   YEARBOOK 

Hull,  Helen  R.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
**Blight.    Touch.    May. 
♦Fire,  The.    Cen.    Nov. 
**Groping.    Sev.  A.    Feb. 
**"  Till  Death  — ."    Masses.   Jan. 
HuNEKER,  James  Gibbons,     (i860-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦♦Modern  Montsalvat,  A.    S.  S.    Feb. 
Hunt,  Edward  Eyre.    (5"^^  19 16.) 
♦♦Flemish  Tale,  A.    Outl,    April  4. 
♦♦♦Ghosts.    N.  Rep.    Jan.  13. 
♦♦In  the  Street  of  the  Spy.    Outl.    Oct.  10. 
♦♦Microcosm.    Outl.    Aug.  8. 
♦♦Pensioners,  The.    Outl.    Feb.  7. 
♦♦♦Saint  Dympna's  Miracle.    Atl.    May.    C.  O.    July. 

♦♦White  Island,  The.    Outl.    Jan.  17. 
Hurst,  Fannie.     (1889-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Get  Ready  the  Wreaths.    Cos.    Sept. 
♦Golden  Fleece.    Cos.    July. 
♦♦Oats  for  the  Woman.    Cos.    June. 
♦On  the  Heights.    Cos.    Dec. 
♦♦Sieve  of  Fulfilment.    Cos.    Oct. 
♦♦♦Solitary  Reaper.    Cos.    May. 
♦♦Would  You?    Met.    May. 
♦Wrong  Pew,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  6. 
Hutchison,  Percy  Adams.     (5"^^  I9i5-) 
♦♦♦Journey's  End.    Harp.  M.    Sept. 


I 

Irwin,  Inez  Haynes  (Gillmore).     (1873-        .)     (See  1916,  and 
also  1915  under  Gillmore,  Inez  Haynes.) 

When  Mother  and  Father  Got  Going.    L.  H.  J.    May. 
Irwin,  Wallace.    (1875-        .)     (See  19 15  and  1916.) 

Ah-Lee-Bung.    Del.    July. 

All  Front  and  No  Back.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  13. 

Echo,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  27. 

Eternal  Youth.    S.  E.  P.    July  21. 
♦♦Hole-in-the-Ground.    Col.    Oct.  27. 

Monkey  on  a  Stick.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  29. 
♦Old  Red  Rambler.    S.  E.  P.    June  16. 

One  of  Ten  Million.    McC.    Dec. 

Peaches  and  Cream.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  10. 

Silence.    Harp.  M.    July. 

Starch  and  Gasolene.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
♦♦Wings.    Col.    April  7. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  571 

Irwin,  WillCiam  Henry).     (1873-       .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Evening  in  Society,  An.    S.  E.  P.    April  28. 


♦Jacobs,  W(iluam  W(ymark).     (1863-       .)      (5"^^  1915  and 
19 16.) 

♦Convert,  The.    Hear.    Sept. 

♦Substitute,  The.    Hear.    Dec. 
♦Jameson,  Elaine  Mary.    (5"^^  igj^  and  1916.) 

Return  of  Sanderson,  The.    Del.    May. 
Jenkins,  Nathalie. 

♦Winter's  Tale,  A.    So.  Wo.  M.    Jan. 
Johnson,  Alvin  Saunders.    (1874-       .)     (See  1916.) 

♦Lynching  in  Bass  County.    N.  Rep.    Aug.  18. 

♦Place  in  the  Sun,  A.    N.  Rep.    Nov.  17. 

Johnson,  Burges.    (1877-       .)     {See  1916.) 
Unmelancholy  Dane,  An.    Pict.  R.    Sept. 
Johnson,    Fanny    Kemble.      {See    1916.)       (Fanny    Kemble 

COSTELLO.) 

♦Idyl  of  Uncle  Paley,  The.    Harp.  M.    March. 
♦Magic  Casements.    Cen.    Oct. 
♦New  Lamps  for  Old.    Cen.    July. 
♦On  the  Altar  of  Friendship.    Cen.    Feb. 
♦♦♦Strange-Looking  Man,  The.    Pag.    Dec. 
Johnson,  Gladys  E. 

Two-Bit  Seats.    Am.    July. 
Johnston,  Calvin.    {See  1915.) 

♦Playgrounds  Dim.  ,S.  E.  P.    Aug.  25. 
Johnston,  Charles.    (1867-       .)     {See  1915.) 

How  Liberty  Came  to  Ivan  Ivanovitch.    Col.    Dec.  22. 
Johnston,  Erle. 

♦Man  with  Eyes  in  His  Back,  The.    Cen.    Sept 
♦Square  Edge  and  Sound.    Cen.    Nov. 
Johnston,  Hubert  McBean. 

Honest  Value.    Am.    July. 

Jones,  (E.)  Clement.    (1890-       .) 

♦♦♦Sea-Turn,  The.    Sev.  A.    Oct. 

Jones,  Frank  Goewey.    (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Christmas  "  Bunk,"  The.    L.  H.  J.    Dec. 
Divided  Spoils.    McC.    Sept. 
Nine  Points  of  the  Law.    Col.    Oct.  13. 
Suspense  Account,  The.    E.  W.    Sept.  3. 


572  THE   YEARBOOK 

Wall  Street  Puzzle,  A.    S.  E.  P.    May  26. 

Warm  Dollars.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  17. 
Jones,  Johnson. 

Great  American  Spoof  Snake,  The.    Bel.    Nov.  3. 
Jones,  Thane  Miller. 

Invaders  of  Sanctuary.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  8. 

N.  Brown.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  18. 
Jordan,    Elizabeth    (Garver).      (1867-        .)       (See    1915   and 
19 16.) 

Mollycoddle,  The.    E.  W.    June  4. 

What  Everyone  Else  Knew.    L.  H.  J.    April. 

Young  Ellsworth's  Hat  Size.    S.  E.  P.    June  16. 
*JoY,  Maurice. 

*Twenty-Four  Hours.    S.  S.    Sept. 
Julius,  Emanuel  Haldiman-. 

"  Young  Man,  You  're  Raving."    Pag.    Jan, 


K 
Kahler,  Hugh. 

♦Unforbidden.    S.  S.    Sept. 
Kauffman,  Reginald  Wright.     (1877-        .)     {See  1916.) 
**Bounty-Jumper,  The.    Bel.    Feb.  10. 
***Lonely  House,  The.    S.  S.    Feb. 

Kelland,   Clarence  Budington.     (1881-        .)      {See  1915  and 
19 16.) 

*Leak,  The.    E.  W.    July  9. 

♦Mountain  Comes  to  Scattergood,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  24. 
Omitted  Question,  The.    E.  W.    Feb.  19. 
Options.    S.  E.  P.    March  24.  • 

♦Practice  Makes  Cock- Sure.    E.  W.    Aug.  27. 
Saving  It  For  Dad.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  20. 
Scattergood  Baines-Invader.    S.  E.  P.    June  30. 
Scattergood  Kicks  Up  the  Dust.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  13. 
Speaking  of  Souls.    E.  W.    Aug.  6. 
Keller,  Lucy  Stone. 

Hail  to  the  Conqueror.    Del.    Jan. 
Kellev.  Leon. 

All  Under  One  Roof.    McC.    Oct. 
Four  Cyhnders  and  Twelve.    McC.    Aug. 
Kelly,  Kate. 

Emancipation  of  Galatea,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 
Kenamore,  Clair. 

♦Sonora  Nights'  Entertainments.    Bookman.    July. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  573 

Kennon,  Harry  B.    (See  1913  and  igi6.) 
Back  from  the  Border.    Mir.    May  4. 
Crumbs  of  Conservation.    Mir.    Dec.  28. 
Fifty-Twelve.    Mir.    Sept.  21. 
Girl  Who  Talked  Out  Loud,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Nov. 
*  Gold  Tooth.    Mir.    May  18. 
**Heirs  Legacy.    Mir.    Aug.  24. 
Mrs.  Chichester's  Confession.    Mir.    June  i. 
Poppy  Seed.    Mir.    March  16. 
Rice  and  Old  Shoes.    Mir.    Nov.  16. 
*Scum.    Mir.    April  6. 
Three  Modern  Musketeers.    Mir.    Dec.  14. 
Kent,  Eileen. 

*Moon  Madness.    Masses.    May. 
Kenton,  Edna. 

*Black  Flies.    Sn.  St.    Dec.  18. 
Kenyon,  Camilla  E.  L. 

Pocketville  Bride,  The.    Sun.    Oct. 
Runaways,  The.    Sun.    May. 
Treasure  from  the  Sea.    Sun.    Sept. 
Tuesday.    Sun.    April. 

KEkR,  Sophie.    (1880-        .)     {See  tqi^  and  1916.) 

Bitterest  Pill,  The.    McC.    Jan. 
*Clock  That  Went  Backward,  The.    W.  H.  C.    July. 

"  Governor  Putty."    McC.    Feb. 

High  Explosive.    McC.    June. 

Marriage  By  Capture.    E.  W.    May  7. 
*Monsieur  Rienzi  Takes  a  Hand.    Am.    June. 
♦Orchard,  The.    Col.    Dec.  15. 

Over-Reached.    McC.    Nov. 

KiLBOURNE,  Fannie.    (See  1915.) 

♦Betty  Bell  and  Love.    Worn.  W.    Oct. 
Bluffer,  The.    Del.    March. 

Kilty,  Mack. 

Taotaomona,  The.    Bel.    Sept.  i. 

♦Kipling,  Rudyard.    (1865-        .)     (.S"^^  1915) 
♦Regulus.    Met.    April. 

Kirk,  R.  G. 

♦Glenmere  White  Monarch  and  the  Gas-House  Pup.    S.  E.  P. 

March  17. 
♦Zanoza.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  27. 

Klahr,  Evelyn  Gill.    (See  19 15.) 
She  of  the  U.  J.    L.  H.  J.    Sept. 
♦Souvenirs  of  Letty  Loomis.    Harp.  M.    March. 


574  THE   YEARBOOK 

Kline,  Burton.    (1877-       .)    {See  1915  and  igi6.) 
***Caller  in  the  Night,  The.    Strat.  J.    Dec. 
**Point  of  Collision,  The.    S.  S.    Nov. 

Knight,  Leavitt  Ashley.    {See  1913  and  1916.) 
♦Village  Orator,  The.    Am.    March. 

Knight,  Reynolds.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 
*Clay.    Mid.    April. 

KOBBE,  GUSTAV.      (1857-  .) 

Clothes.    (/?.)    Mir.    Jan.  12. 
♦KoRZENiowsKi,  Joseph  Conrad.    (5"^^  "  Conrad,  Joseph.") 
Krysto,  Christina.     (1887-        .) 
***Babanchik:.    Atl.    April. 

KuMMER,  Frederic  Arnold.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Madman,  The.    Pict.  R.    Feb.-March. 

Kyne,  Peter  Bernard.     (1880-        .)     {See  19 15  and  1916.) 
Cappy  Ricks  Takes  On  the  Kaiser.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  8. 
Cappy  Ricks,  Wheat  Baron.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  17. 
Circumventing  Wilhelm.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 
Floating  the  Dundee  Lassie.    Col.    Feb.  17. 
For  Revenue  Only.    S.  E.  P.    June  9. 
Over  and  Back.    Col.    March  10. 
♦Saint  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning.    S.  E.  P.    May  19. 
Salt  of  the  Earth.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  3. 
Swanker,  The.    Sun.    Oct. 


Lait,  Jack.    (Jacquin  L.)     (1882-       .)     {See  19 16.) 
♦Clause  for  Santa  Claus,  A.    Milestones.    Dec. 

If  a  Party  Meet  a  Party.     (R.)     Mir.    Jan.  26. 
♦Jersey  Lil.    Am.    June. 

Toilers  in  the  Night.    Am.    Nov. 

Lane,  George  C. 

♦Jones  of  the  Iron  Grip.    Y.  C.    Dec.  20. 

Lardner,  Ring  W.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 

Ball-a-Hole.    S.  E.  P.    May  12. 

Facts,  The.    Met.    Jan. 

Friendly  Game,  A.    S.  E.  P.    May  5. 

Hold-Out,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 

Three  Without,  Doubled.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  13. 

Tour  Y-io.    Met.    Feb. 

Yellow  Kid,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  23. 
"  La  Rue,  Edgar."    {See  Masters,  Edgar  Lee.) 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  575 

♦Lawrence,  D.*  H.     (See  1915.) 
***England  My  England.    Met.    April. 
***Mortal  Coil,  The.    Sev.  A.    July. 
***Thimble,  The.    Sev.  A.    March. 
Lazar,  Maurice. 

Boarder,  The.    Masses.    Feb. 
♦Habit.    Touch.    July. 
Lea,  Fannie  Heaslip.     (Mrs.  H.  P.  Agee.)     (1884-        .)     (See 
19 IS  and  19 16.) 
Big  Things.    McC.    May. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.    Harp.  M.    Aug. 
On  the  Spring  Idea.    E.  W.    April  9. 
Opened  by  Censor  1762.    Del.    Sept. 
*Le  Braz,  Anatole.    (1859-        .) 
***Christmas  Treasure,  The.    So.  Wo.  M.    Dec. 
**Frame,  The.    Outl.    Feb.  21. 
Lee,  Jennette  (Barbour  Perry),     (i860-        .)     (5"^^  1915  and 

19 16.) 
***John  Fairchild's  Mirror.    Can.    April. 
Miss  Somebody's  Chair.    L.  H.  J.    June. 
Three  Boats  that  the  Two  Men  Saw,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Aug. 
*Two  Doctors,  The.    L.  H.  J.    July. 
*Le  Gallienne,  Richard.     (1866-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Bugler  of  the  Immortals,  The.    Del.    July. 

Lerner,  Mary.    (See  1915  and  19 16.) 
♦Forsaking  All  Others.    Col.    May  26. 
♦♦♦Little  Selves.     (R.)    I.  S.  M.    May  13. 
♦Sixteen.    McCall.    March. 
♦♦Wages  of  Virtue.    All.    Feb.  3. 
♦Lev,  Bernard. 
♦♦♦Bert,  the  Scamp.    Strat.  J.    Dec. 
♦♦♦Marfa's  Assumption.    Strat.  J.    Dec. 
♦Level,  Maurice. 

♦After  the  War.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Oct.  7- 
♦At  the  Movies.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Dec.  9. 
♦♦Great  Scene,  The.    B.  Her.    Dec.  2. 
Leverage,  Henry. 

♦Last  Link,  The.    Sh.  St.    April. 
♦Passage  for  Archangel,  A.    Sh.  St.    Feb. 
♦Salt  of  the  Sea.    Sh.  St.    May. 
Levison,  Eric.     (See  Cohen,  Octavus  Roy,  and  Levison,  Erxc.) 
Lewars,  Elsie  Singmaster.     (See  Singmastek,  Elsie.) 
Lewis,  Addison.    (1889-       .) 
♦♦Black  Disc,  The.    Mir.    Oct.  26. 


576  THE   YEARBOOK 

"  Elevator  Stops  At  All  Floors."    Mir.    Dec.  7.  * 
*End  of  the  Lane,  The.    Mir.    Feb.  2. 
*New  Silhouette,  The.    Mir.    Nov.  2. 
*g :  IS,  The.    Mir.    Nov.  16. 
♦♦Rejected,  The.    Mir.    Oct.  12. 
**Sign  Painter,  The.    Mir.    Oct.  5. 
**Spite.    Mir.    Oct.  19. 
***When  Did  You  Write  Your  Mother  Last?    Mir.    Nov.  9. 

Lewis,  Austin.    (See  1916.) 

Contra  Bonos  Mores.    Masses.    Sept. 
Lucky  Sweasy !    Masses.    Jan. 

Lewis,  Sinclair.    (1885-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Black  Snow  and  Orange  Sky.    Met.    Oct. 
♦For  the  Zelda  Bunch.    McC.    Oct. 
Hobohemia.    S.  E.  P.    April  7. 
Joy-Joy.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  20. 
Poinsettia  Widow,  The.    Met.    March. 
♦Scarlet  Sign,  The.    Met.    June. 
Snappy  Display.    Met.    Aug. 
Twenty-Four  Hours  in  June.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  17. 
Whisperer,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  11. 
Woman  By  Candlelight,  A.    S.  E.  P.    July  28. 
**Young  Man  Axelbrod.    Cen.    June. 
*LiDDELL,  Scotland. 
**01itchka.    (R.)    C.  O.    Nov. 

LiGHTON,  Louis  DuRYEA.     (See  LiGHTON,  William  Rheem,  and 

LiGHTON,  Louis  DuRYEA.) 

LiGHTON,  William  Rheem.     (1866-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
(See  also   Lighton,   William    Rheem,   and   Lighton,   Louis 

DURYEA.) 

Billy  Fortune  and  the  Hard  Proposition.    E.  W.    May  14. 
Judge  Jerry  and  the  Eternal  Feminine.    Pict.  R.    July. 

Lighton,   William    Rheem    (1866-        ),   and   Lighton,   Louis 
DuRYEA.    (See  19 16.) 
*Billy  Fortune  and  That  Dead  Broke  Feeling.    Pict.  R.    May. 
Billy  Fortune  and  the  Spice  of  Life.    Pict.  R.    March. 
Man  Without  a  Character,  The.    Sun.    May. 

Lindas,  B.  F.    (See  1916.) 

♦Dago,  The.    Mir.    Jan.  19. 
Loan,  Charles  E.  Van.    (5"^^  Van  Loan,  Charles  E.) 

London,  Jack.    (1876-1916.)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

♦Grit  of  Women,  The.     (7?.)     L  S.  M.    Jan.  7. 
♦♦♦Like  Argus  of  the  Ancient  Time.    Hear.    March. 
♦Thousand  Deaths,  A.     (R.)     B.  C.    Jan. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  577 

Long,  Lily  Augusta. 

"  To  Love,  Honor,  and  Obey."  Harp.  M,    May. 
Loon,    Hendrik    Willem    Van.      (See    Van    Loon,    Hendrik 

WiLLEM.) 

"Lopez,  Inez."    (Mrs.  Octavus  Roy  Cohen.) 
**Answer,  The.    B.  E.  T.    May  5. 

Lowe,  Corinne. 

Flavius  Best,  Pinxit.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  29-Oct.  6. 
Slicker,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 
Ludwig,  Frances  A. 

Square  Pegs  in  Round  Holes.    Am.    Dec. 
Lund,  Adelaide. 

*Pay-Roll  Clerk,  The.    Atl.    Aug. 
Lynch,  J.  Bernard. 

*Making  Good  on  the  Props.    Hear.    Feb. 
Lynn,  Margaret.    (See  19 15.) 

**Mr.  Fannet  and  the  Afterglow.    Atl.    Nov. 


M 

Mabie,  Louise  Kennedy.    (See  1915.) 

Efficient  Mrs.  Broderick,  The.'    L.  H.  J.    Feb. 
McCasland,  Vine. 

**Spring  Rains.    Mir.    May  25. 
McClure,  John.    (See  1916.) 

**King  of  Sorrows,  The.    S.  S.    Nov. 
McConnell,  Sarah  Warder. 
Influence,  The.    Ev.    Oct. 

McCourt,  Edna  Wahlert.    (See  191 5.) 

♦David's  Birthright.    Sev.  A.    Jan. 
McCoy,  William  M. 

♦Little  Red  Decides.    Am.    Dec. 

♦Rough  Hands  —  But  Gentle  Hearts.    Am.    Nov. 
Scum  of  the  Earth.    Col.    Sept.  8. 

Macfarlane,  Peter  Clark.    (1871-        .) 
♦♦Deacon  Falls,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  10. 
Great  Are  Simple,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  i. 
Live  and  Let  Live !    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  22. 
MacGowan,  Alice.    (1858-       .)     (5"^^  79/6.) 

Golden  Hope,  The.    E.  W.    June  4. 
MacGrath,  Harold.    (1871-        .)     (See  1915.) 
♦Seas  That  Mourn,  The.    Col.    Oct.  6. 


578  THE    YEARBOOK 

*Machard,  Alfred. 

*Repatriation.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Dec.  i6. 

*Machen,  Arthur.    (1863-        .) 
***Coming  of  the  Terror,  The.    Cen.    Oct. 

Mackenzie,  Cameron.    (1882-        .)     (See  1916.) 

Firm,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  6. 

Main-Chance  Lady,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  10. 

Thing,  The.    McC.    Jan. 
McLaurin,  Kate  L.    (See  1916.) 

*"  Sleep  of  the  Spinning  Top,  The."    (R.)    C.  O.    Aug, 

MacManus,  Seumas.     (1870-        .)     (See  191 5  and  1916.) 
♦♦Fluttering  Wisp,  The.    Del.    Dec. 
**Lord  Mayor  of  Buffalo,  The.    Del.    Oct. 
***Mad  Man,  the  Dead  Man,  and  the  Devil,  The.   Pict.  R.  April. 

MacNichol,  Kenneth. 

*Long  Live  Liberty !    Col.    June  2. 
♦Madeiros  e  Albuquerque,  Jose  de.     (1867-        .) 
***Vengeance  of  Felix,  The.    Strat.  J.    Dec. 
*Madrus,  Lucie  Delarue-.     (See  Delarue-Madrus,  Lucie.) 
Manning,  Marie.     (Mrs.  Herman  E.  Gasch.)     (See  1915  and 
19 16.) 
No  Clue.    McC.    June. 
Seventeen- Year  Locusts,  The.    Pict.  R.    June. 

Marks,  Jeannette.     (1875-        .)     (See  1916.) 
Golden  Door,  The.    Bel.    April  7. 

Marquis,   Don  (Robert   Perry).      (1878-        .)      (See   1915  and 
19 16.) 

♦Being  a  Public  Character.    Am.    Sept. 
Marriott,  Crittenden.     (1867-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
God's  Messenger.    E.  W.    July  16. 

Marsh,  George  T.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
**For  the  Great  Father.    Scr.    March. 
**Out  of  the  Mist.    Cen.    April. 
♦Valley  of  the  Windigo,  The.    Scr.    June. 

Marshall,  Edison.     (See  1916.) 

Chicago  Charlie  Lancelot.    Am.     Sept. 

♦♦♦Man  That  Was  in  Him,  The.    Am.    Aug. 

♦Vagabond  or  Gentleman?    Am.    June. 

Marshall,  Rachael,  and  Terrell,  Maverick. 

Heroizing  of  Amos  Chubby,  The.    Pict.  R.    Aug. 

Martin,  Katharine. 

♦Celebrating  Father.    L.  H.  J.     Nov. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  579 

♦Mason,  Alfred  Edward  Woodlev.    (1865-        .)    (See  1915  and 
1916.) 
♦Silver  Ship,  The.    Met.    Jan. 

Mason,  Grace  Sartwell.    (1877-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
For  I  'm  To  Be  Queen  of  the  May.    E.  W.    April  30. 
♦Jessie  Passes.    E.  W.    Feb.  5. 
Potato  Soldier,  The.    E.  W.     Nov.  12. 
Summer  Wives.     Met.    Nov. 
♦Woman  Who  Was  a  Shadow,  The.    Met.    Aug. 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee.     ("Edgar  La  Rue.")     (1868-        .) 
♦♦♦Boyhood  Friends.    Yale.    Jan. 
♦♦♦Widow  La  Rue.    Mir.    Jan.  19. 
♦Maxwell,  William  Babington. 

♦Woman's  Portion,  The.    Ev.    Dec. 
May,  Noble. 

♦Mabel  Plays  the  Game.    Am.    Feb. 
Meaker,  S.  D. 

Man's  Own  Wife,  A.    Scr.    April. 

Mellett,  Berthe  Knatvold.     (See  19 15  and  1916.) 
Kolinsky.    Col.    March  10. 

Merchant,  Abby. 
♦♦Presentiment,  The.    Harp.  M.    July. 

Metcalf,  Thomas  Newell. 

Martin's  Chickens.    Cen.    Nov. 
Meyer,  Ernest  L. 

Non  Compos  Mentis.     (R.)     Mir.    Feb.  16. 
Miles,  Emma  Bell.     (5"^^  JQIS-) 

♦Destroying  Angel,  The.     So.  Wo.  M.    May. 

♦Mille,  Pierre,     (1864-        .) 

♦How  They  Do  It.    N.  Y.  Trib.    July  8. 

♦Man  Who  Was  Afraid,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    June  24. 

♦Soldier  Who  Conquered  Sleep,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    March  11. 
Miller,  Helen  Topping.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 

From  Wimbleton  to  Wambleton.    Del.    March. 

MiNNiGERODE,  Meade.     (See  1916.) 

Macaroons.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  24. 
Minuit,  Peter. 

♦Class  of  19—,  The.    Sev.  A.    June. 

Modern  Accident,  A.    Sev.  A.    April. 

Mitchell,  Mary  Esther.     (See  191!)  and  1916.) 
♦♦Miss  Barcy's  Waterloo.    Harp.  M.    Oct. 
♦♦Smaller  Craft,  The.    Harp.  M.    March. 


58o  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦Strike  in  the  Mines,  A.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
*"  Then  Came  David."    Harp.  M.     Sept. 
Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort.     {See  1916.) 
**Call,  The.    Mir.    March  30.    N.  Y.  Trib.    April  15. 

Glory  Girl,  The.    Cen.    Dec. 
*Jane  Meets  an  Extremely  Civil  Engineer.     Cen.     Sept. 
Jane  Puts  It  Over.    Cen.    Jan. 
♦Let  Nothing  You  Dismay!    Mir.    Dec.  21. 
*MoNTGOMERY,  Lewis  A.     (See^  "  DoYLE,  Lynn.") 
Moore,  Mrs.  Frederick  Ferdinand.     (See  Gates,  Eleanor.) 
Moore,  James  Merriam. 

♦On  an  Old  Army  Post.    Atl.    July. 
♦MoRDAUNT,  Elinor.     (See  1913.) 
♦♦♦Gold  Fish,  The.    Met.    Feb. 
MoRLEY,  Christopher. 

♦Question  of  Plumage,  A.     Bel.    Jan.  20. 
♦♦Revenge.    B.  E.  T.    Feb.  28. 
♦♦Rhubarb.    Col.    Dec.  29. 
MoRoso,  John  Antonio.     (1874-        .)     (5"^^  191$  and  1916.) 
♦Dad.    Am.    May. 

♦Light  in  the  Window,  The.    Worn.  W.    Feb. 
♦Maggie.     L  S.  M.    Oct.  28. 

Mister  Jones.     L  S.  M.    March  4. 
♦Poor  'Toinette.    Del.    Oct. 
♦Shoes  that  Danced,  The.    Met.    Dec. 
♦Uncle  Jules.    Del.    April. 
Morris,  Gouverneur.     (1876-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦"  Death  in  Both  Pockets."    Harp.  B.     Sept. 
♦Doing  Her  Bit.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  22. 
♦Honor  Thy  Father.    Harp.  B.    Oct. 
♦Mary  May  and  Miss  Phyllis.    Harp.  B.    Nov. 
Senator  in  Pelham  Bay  Park,  A.    Col.    Dec.  8. 
Morton,  Johnson. 

Henrietta  Intervenes.    Harp.  M.    Sept. 
♦♦♦Understudy,  The.     Harp.  M.     Aug. 
♦MuENZER,  Kurt.     (1879-        .) 

"  Weltfried."    N.  Y.  Trib.    Jan.  21. 
MuiLENBURG,  W.'VLTER  J.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦At  the  End  of  the  Road.     (R.)    I.  S.  M.    May  27. 
♦Thanksgiving   Lost  and  Found.     To-day.     Nov. . 
MuiR,  Bliss. 

Wedding  Dress,  The.    Met.    July. 
MuiR,  Ward. 
♦♦Unflawed  Friendship,  The.    S.  S.    Jan. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  581 

MuMFORD,     Ethel    Watts.       (Mrs.     Ethel     Watts-Mumford 
Grant.     (1878-        .)     {See  igis  and  1916.) 
♦♦Bounty.    G.  H.    May. 

Opal  Morning,  The.    McC.    April. 
♦Second  Sight  of  Hepsey  McLean,  The.    Col.    July  28. 


N 

"  Nadir,  A.  A."    (See  Abdullah,  Achmed.) 
Nafe,  Gertrude.    (1883-       .) 
♦♦♦One  Hundred  Dollars.    Cen.    Feb. 

Neidig,  William  Jonathan.     (1870-       .)     (See  1916.) 
♦Camel  from  Home,  The.    Harp.  M.    Oct. 
Gunman,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  10. 
♦Hair  of  the  Dog,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  15. 
♦Netto,  Coelho.    (1864-       .) 
♦♦♦Pigeons,  The.    Strat.  J.    Dec. 

Nicholson,  Meredith.     (1866-        .)     (See  191$  and  1916.) 

Doubtful  Dollars.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  13. 
♦♦♦Heart  of  Life,  The.    Scr.     Dec. 
Made  in  Mazooma.    Met.    Feb. 

Norris,  Kathleen.     (1880-        .)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
Children,  The.    Pict.  R.    Jan. 

Norton,  Roy.     (1869-1917.)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Aunt  Seliny.     Pict.  R.    April. 
♦♦Fine  Old  Fool,  The.    L.  H.  J.    July. 


O 

O'Brien,  Howard  Vincent. 

Eight  Minutes  from  the  Station.    L.  H.  J.    Jan. 

O'Brien,  Seumas.     (1880-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Bargain  of  Bargains,  A.    L  S.  M.    Feb.  4. 
♦♦♦Murder?    I.  S.  M.    Dec.  9. 

O'Hara,  Frank  Hurburt.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Green  Silk  Dress,  The.    E.  W.    Jan.  22. 
Sham  Girl,  The.    E.  W.    April  23. 

O'HiGGiNs,  Harvey  J.     (1876-        .)     (See  1915.) 
♦♦Benjamin  McNeil  Murdock.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  8. 
♦♦From  the  Life :  Sir  Watson  Tyler.    Cen.    March. 
♦♦♦From  the  Life :  Thomas  Wales  Warren.     Cen.     April 
♦♦Jane  Shore.    Cen.    July. 


582  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦Okunev,  J. 

♦Flanking  Movement,  A.    Rus,  R.    Jan. 
Oliver,  Jennie  Harris. 

♦Devil's  Whirlpool,  The.    Del.    Aug. 

♦Rusty.    Del,    Nov. 

O'Neill,  Eugene  G. 
♦♦Tomorrow.     Sev.  A.    June. 

♦Opotawshu,  Joseph  K.    {See  19 16.) 
♦♦Cabalist,  The.     Pag.    April-May. 
♦♦New-World  Idyll.    Pag.    Oct.-Nov. 
♦♦Night  in  the  Forest,  A.    Pag.    April-May. 

♦Oppenheim,  Edward  Phillips.     (1866-        .)     (See  1916) 
Bride's  Necklace,  The.     {R.)     I.  S.  M.    Feb.  4. 
♦Cunning  of  Harvey  Grimm,  The.    Harp.  B.    Dec. 
Sad  Faced  Hermit,  The.     {R.)     I.  S.  M.    Sept.  30. 
Unlucky  Rehearsal,  An.    I.  S.  M.    Jan.  7. 

O'Reilly,  Edward  S.     {See  1916.) 
♦♦Dead  or  Alive.    Col.    Sept.  29. 
Dominant  Male,  The.    Pict.  R.    Dec. 
Soothing  the  Savage  Breast.     Pict.  R.    Nov. 
Two-Cylinder  Lochinvar,  A.    Pict.  R.    Oct. 

Osborne,  (Samuel)  Duffield.     (1858-        .)     {See  1915) 
♦♦Dark  Places.    Art  W.    Oct. 

Osborne,   William   Hamilton.      (1873-       .)      {See   1915  and 
19 16.) 

Clandestine  Career,  A.     S.  E.  P.    April  14. 
♦♦Knife,  The.    Bel.    May  12. 
Kotow  de  Luxe.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  3. 
♦Signor.    Sn.  St.    March  4. 

Osbourne,  Lloyd.     (1868-        .)     {See  1915.) 
Marrying  Money.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  6. 
♦Out  of  the  Mist.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  i. 

Ostrander,  Isabel.     {See  191s  and  1916.) 
Eye  for  an  Eye,  An.    I.  S.  M.    April  29. 
Followers  of  the  Star.    I.  S.  M.    Dec.  23. 
Ransom,  The.    I.  S.  M.    April  i. 
Winged  Clue,  The.    I.  S.  M.    May  27. 

O'Sullivan,  Vincent.     (1872-        .)     {See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Interval,  The.    B.  E.  T.    Sept.  8. 
Oxford,  John  Barton. 

♦Importance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  The,    Am.    Oct 


INDEX   OF   SHORT    STORIES  583 


Pain,  Wellesley. 

Beginner's  Luck.     (R.)     Mir.    Sept  7. 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow.    (1861-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Excursion  in  Memory,  An.    Harp.  M.    March. 

Palmer,  Helen. 

Old  Diggums.    Bel.    Jan.  6. 

Palmer,  Vance.     (5"^^  1915  and  igi6.) 

Island  of  the  Dead,  The.    Bel.    Oct.  13. 

Love  and  the  Lotus.    Sun.    May. 

Rajah  and  the  Rolling  Stone,  The.    Bel.    Dec.  8. 

Will  to  Live,  The.    Bel.    Jan.  13. 

Pangborn,  Georgia  Wood.     (1872-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Bixby's  Bridge.    Harp.  M.    March. 
♦Twilight  Gardener,  The.    Touch.    June. 

Pattee,  Loueen. 

Muted  Message,  A.    Outl.    Feb.  14. 

Pattullo,  George.    (1879-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Being  Nice  to  Nellie.     S.  E.  P.    Jan.  27. 
First  Aid  to  M'sieu  Hicks.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  20. 
Going  After  the  Inner  Meaning.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  11. 
Half  a  Man.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  3. 
Little  Sunbeam.    E.  W.    June  18. 
Never  Again  !    S.  E,  P.    March  24. 
♦Wrong  Road,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  6. 

Payne,  Will.     (1865-        .)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
♦Crime  at  Pribbles,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  10. 
Natural  Oversight,  A.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  13. 

Peake,  Elmore  Elliott.     (1871-        .)     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
Foreman  of  Talulla,  The.    Del.    June. 
House  of  Hoblitzell,  The.    E.  W.    June  11. 
Wrath  of  Elihu,  The.    E.  W.    May  ?■ 

Pearl,  Jeanette  D. 

Pride.    Masses.    June. 

Peattie,  Elia  Wilkinson.     (1862-       .)     (See  191$-) 
♦Lion  Light,  The.    Y.  C.    Nov.  i. 

Peck,  Ward.  , 

Forty-Niner,  The.    Sun.    June. 

Peeler,  Clare  P.    (5"^^  J9i(>.) 

Jewel  Song,  The.    E.  W.    July  2. 
Prince  Enchanted,  The.    E.  W.    Jan.  ap. 


584  THE   YEARBOOK 

Pexlfy,  William  Dudley.    (5"^^  igi6.) 
Courtin'  Calamity.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 

*Four-Square  Man,  The.    Am.    Oct. 
Jerry  Out-o'-My-Way.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 
One-Thihg-at-a-Time  O'Day.    S.  E.  P.    May  19. 

*Russet  and  Gold.    Am.    Dec. 

*She  's  "  Only  a  Woman."    Am.    Nov. 

♦Their  Mother.    Am.    Aug. 

Pendexter,  Hugh.     (1875-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Brand  from  the  Burning,  A.    I.  S.  M.    Nov.  11. 
Lost  and  Found.    I.  S.  M.    Sept.  2. 

Pennell,  Elizabeth  Robins.     (See  Robins,  Elizabeth.) 

Perry,  Lawrence.     (1875-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
***"  Certain  Rich  Man  — ,  A."     Scr.    Nov. 
Diffident  Mr.  Kyle,  The.    Harp.  M.    Sept. 
Golf  Cure,  The.    Scr.    June. 
King's  Cup,  The.    Met.    Aug. 
Sea  Call,  The.    Harp.  M.    June. 

*Pertwee,  Roland,     (See  19 16.) 
***Camouflage.    Cen.    May. 

Page  from  a  Notebook,  A.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  8. 
***Red  and  White.    Cen.    Aug. 

Third  Encounter,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  20. 

*Petrov,  Stepan  Gavrilovich.     (See  "  Skitalets.") 

♦Philippe,  Charles-Louis. 
♦♦♦Meeting,  The.    Mir.    May  11. 

♦Phillpotts,  Eden.     (1862-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Christmas  Day  in  the  Morning.     Del.    Dec. 
♦Key  to  the  Church,  The.    Del.    June. 
♦♦Told  to  Parson.    Bel.    July  14.    Mir.    Aug.  17. 
♦Under  Messines  Ridge.    Bel.    Sept.  15. 

Piper,  Edwin  Ford.     (1871-        .) 

♦♦Claim-Jumper,  The.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦In  a  Public  Place.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦In  the  Canyon.    Mid.    Oct.  . 

♦♦Joe  Taylor.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦Man  With  the  Key  Once  More,  The.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦Meanwhile.    Mid.    April. 

♦♦Mister  Dwiggins.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦Nathan  Briggs.    Mid.    Dec. 

♦♦Ridge  Farm,  The.    Mid.    Oct. 

♦♦Well  Digger,  The.    Mid.    Feb. 
Piper,  Margaret  Rebecca.    (1879-       .) 

♦♦Boy's  Will,  A.    Harp.  M.    Feb. 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  585 

Pitt,  Chart. 

*Law  of  the  Abalone,  The.    B.  C.    July. 
Porter,  Harold  Everett.     {See  "Hall,  Holworthy.") 
Porter,  Laura  Spencer.     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Boy's  Mother,  The.    Harp.  M.    June. 
♦♦♦Idealist,  The.    Harp.  M.    April. 

Post,  Melville  Davisson.     (1871-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Act  of  God,  An.     {R.)     I.  S.  M.    March  4. 
♦♦Adopted  Daughter,  The.     {R.)     I.  S.  M.    May  13. 
♦♦Devil's  Tools.  The.     {R.)     I.  S.  M.    Dec.  9. 
♦♦Lord  Winton's  Adventure.    Hear.    June. 

♦Pacifist,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  29. 
♦♦♦Riddle,  The.     {R.)    I.  S.  M.    Jan.  21. 
♦♦♦Straw  Man,  The.     (/?.)     I.  S.  M.    June  10. 
♦♦Wage-Earners,  The.     S.  E.  P.     SepJ.  15. 
♦Witch  of  the  Lecca,  The.    Hear.    Jan. 

Pottle,  Emery. 

♦♦♦Breach  in  the  Wall,  The.    Harp.  M.    March. 
Mistake  in  the  Horoscope,  A.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
Music  Heavenly  Maid.    Col.    Feb.  24. 
♦♦♦Portrait,  The.    Touch.    Dec. 

Sophie's  Great  Moment.    McC.    Sept. 
Pratt,  Lucy.     (1874-        .)     {See  19 16.) 

♦♦Sunny  Door,  The.    Pict.  R.    June. 
Prouty,  Olive  Higgins.     (1882-        .)     {See  1916.) 
♦♦♦New  England  War  Bride,  A.    Ev.    May. 
Pluck.     Am.     Feb. 
Price  of  Catalogues,  The.    Ev.    Jan. 
Unwanted.    Am.    May. 
PuLVER,  Mary  Brecht.    (1883-       .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Good  Fight,  The.    S.  E.  P.    May  5- 
Inept  Lover,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  8. 
♦Long  Carry,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  20. 
Man-Hater,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  9. 
Man  Who  Was  Afraid,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  10. 
♦♦♦Path  of  Glory,  The.     S.  E.  P.    March  10. 

Pomegranate  Coat,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  13. 
Putnam,  Nina  Wilcox.     (188&-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Spring  Night,  A.    Ev.    Feb. 


Q 

♦Quiller- Couch,  Sir  Arthur  Thomas.     (1863- 
**Fire  at  Rescrugga,  The.    Bel.    March  24. 


586  THE   YEARBOOK 

♦♦  "  Not  Here,  O  Apollo !  "    Bel.    May  19. 
♦♦Pilot  Matthey's  Christmas.    Bel.    Dec.  22. 


Wrestlers.     (R.)    Mir.    Feb.  9. 
Raisin,  Ovro'om.     (See  1916J) 
♦♦♦Ascetic,  The.    Pag.    Dec. 
Raphael,  John  N.     (See  1916.) 

♦From  Marie-Anne  to  Anne-Marie.    Ev.    Oct. 
Reed,  John  (S).     (1887-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Buccaneer's  Grandson,  The.    Met.    Jan. 

Reely,  Mary  Katharine. 

♦Doctor  Goes  North,  A.    Mid.    Nov. 
♦♦Mothers'  Day.    Mid.    May. 
Reese,  Lowell  Otus.    {See  19 16.) 

Constable  of  Copper  Sky,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  31. 
Grandpa  Makes  Him  Sick.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  10. 
♦Kentucky  Turns.    S.  E.  P.    March  17. 
Pariah,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug,  25. 
Reighard,  J.  Gamble. 

Pedro.    Bel.    June  23. 
"  Relonde,  Maurice." 
♦♦Delightful  Legend,  A.     Sev.  A.    March. 

Reyher,  Ferdinand  M.     (1891-        .)     {See  1916.) 
Astor  Place.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 

Rice,  Margaret. 

♦♦Harvest  Home.    Touch.    Nov. 
Rich,  Bertha  A.     {See  1916.) 

Goat  Man  and  Nancy,  The.    Am.    July. 
Richard,  Hetty  Hemenway.     {See  Hemenway,  Hetty  Law- 
rence. ) 
Richards,  Raymond. 

♦Chink,  The.    B.  C.    March. 
Richardson,  Anna  Steese.     (1865-        .) 

Not  a  Cent  in  the  House.    McC.    June-July. 

Richardson,  Norval.    (1877-        .) 
♦♦Adelaide.    Scr.    Aug. 
♦♦♦Miss  Fothergill.    Scr.    Oct. 
♦♦Mrs.  Merryweather.    Scr.     Sept. 
♦♦Sheila.     Scr.    Nov. 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  587 

Richmond,  Grace  S. 

Taking  It  Standing.     (R.)     C.  O.    Dec. 
Whistling  Mother,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Aug. 

RiCHTER,  Conrad.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Girl  That  "  Got "  Colly,  The.    L.  H.  J.    May. 
Sure  Thing,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 

RiDEOUT,  Henry  Milner.     (1877-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
*Hury  Seke.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  22. 

RiGGS,  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin.    (See  Wiggin,  Kate  Douglas.) 

♦Rinck,  C.  a. 
***Song,  The.    N.  Y.  Trib.    Jan.  7. 

Rinehart,  Mary  Roberts.     (1876-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Bab's  Burglar.    S.  E.  P.    May  12. 
*Down  Happy  Valley.     (R.)     I.  S.  M.    Nov.  25. 
G.  A.  C,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  2. 
Her  Dairy.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  17. 
Tish  Does  Her  Part.    S.  E.  P.    July  28. 
Twenty-Two.    Met.    June. 

Rinehart,  Robert  E. 

♦And  Tezla  Laughed.    Par.    Feb. 

Ritchie,  Robert  Welles.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Blue  Bob  Comes  Home.    Col.    July  28. 
Dreadful  Fleece,  The.    Sun.    Aug. 
Light  That  Burned  All  Night,  The.    Sun.    Oct. 
**Road  to  Sundance,  The.    Col.    June  16. 
♦Rods  of  the  Law.    Harp.  M.    April. 
Schoolma'am's  Little  Lamp,  The.    L.  H.  J.    March. 
Shuttle,  The.    E.  W.    Oct.  22. 
♦Trail  from  Desolation,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  29. 

Rix,  George. 

Russet  Bag,  The.    Sun.    Sept. 

ROBBINS,  F.  E.  C. 

♦Good  Listener,  A.    Y.  C.    Nov.  8. 
♦♦Writer  of  Fiction,  A.    Y.  C.    Oct.  4. 

Robbins,  RoyAl. 

♦After  Fifty  Years.    So.  Wo.  M.    Dec. 

Roberts,  Charles  George  Douglas.    (See  1915.) 
♦Eagle,  The.    Cos.    Nov. 

Roberts,  Kenneth  L. 

Good  Will  and  Almond  Shells.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  22. 

♦Roberts,  Morley.    (1857-       .) 
♦♦Man  Who  Lost  His  Likeness,  The.    Met.    Sept. 


588  THE   YEARBOOK 

Robertson,  Edna. 

*Moon  Maid,  The.    I.  S.  M.    July  22. 
Robins,    Elizabeth.      (Mrs.    Joseph    Pennell.)      (1855-        .) 
(See  19 1 5.) 

♦Tortoise-shell  Cat,  The.    Cos.    Aug. 
Robinson,  Eloise.     (1889-        .)     {See  1916.) 
♦Bargain  in  a  Baby,  A.    Harp.  M.    July. 
♦Beautiful  as  the  Morning.     Harp.  M.    Dec. 
♦Idols  and  Images.    Harp.  M.    Feb. 
♦Infant  Tenderness,  The.    Harp.  M.    April. 
Roche,  Arthur  Somers.     (See  1915.) 

Scent  of  Apple  Blossoms,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  lo. 
Roe,  Vingie  E.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Broken  Hilt,  The.    Col.    Aug.  11. 

Euphemia  Miller.    Col.    Feb.  3. 
♦Little  Boy  Makes  It  Through,  The.    Sun.    Nov. 
Little  Boy  of  Panther  Mountain,  The.     Sun.    July. 
Pocket  Hunter,  The.    Sun.    Dec. 
Smoky  Face.    Col.    June  9. 
True-Bred.    Col.    Nov.  17. 
Rogers,  How^ard  O. 

Jenkins'  Secret.     Sun.    July. 
♦"  Rohmer,   Sax."      (Arthur   Sarsfield  Ward.)      (1883-        .) 
(See  1915  and  1916.) 
Black  Chapel,  The.    Col.    June  2. 
House  of  Hashish.    Col.    Feb.  17. 
Ki-Ming.     Col.     March  3. 
♦Shrine  of  Seven  Lamps.    Col.    April  21. 
♦Valley  of  the  Just,  The.    Pict.  R.    Sept. 
Zagazig  Cryptogram,  The.    Col.    Jan.  6. 
Rosenblatt,  Benjamin.     (1880-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Madonna,  The.    Mid.     Sept. 
♦♦♦Menorah,  The.     (R.)     I.  S.  M.    July  8. 
Rothery,  Julian.     (See  19 16.) 
♦Idaho  Thriller,  An.    Am.    Jan. 
♦Legend  of  'Frisco  Bar,  The.    Am.    April. 
Rouse,  William  Merriam.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Dog  Fight,  The.    Bel.    May  5. 

In  the  Name  of  the  Great  Jehovah.    For.    Jan. 
♦Light  in  the  Valley,  The.     Bel.    Dec.  29. 
♦Pete  the  Gump.    Bel.    Feb.  24. 
♦Strawberry  Shortcake.    Y.  C.    July  5. 
♦Strength  of  Simeon  Niles,  The.    Mid.    March. 
Russell,  John.     (See  1916.) 

♦Doubloon  Gold.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  20. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  589 

*East  of  Eastward.    Col.    Oct.  20. 
**Fourth  Man,  The.    Col.    Jan.  6. 
Jetsam.    Col.    Feb.  24. 
♦Jonah.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  15. 
♦Lost  God,  The.    Col.    Aug.  18. 
♦♦Meaning — Chase  Yourself.    CoJ.    March  17. 
♦♦Practicing  of  Christopher,  The.    Col.    Dec.  29. 
♦Wicks  of  Macassar,  The.    Col.    Jan.  27. 
Wise  Men,  The.    Del.    Jan.-Feb. 

RuTLEDGE,  Archibald  (Hamilton).     (1883-        .) 
♦Terrible  Brink,  The.    B.  C.    April. 

"  RuTLEDGE,  Marice."     {See  Van  Saanen,  Marie  Louise.) 

Ryder,  Charles  T.     {See  191s  and  1916.) 
♦♦Rahim  of  the  Hollow  Tree.     Bel.     Sept.  22. 

Ryerson,  Florence.    (See  19 15.) 

Apartment  No.  3.    E.  W.    Oct.  i. 


Saanen,  Marie  Louise  van.    {See  Van  Saanen,  Marie  Louise.) 
Sabin,  Edwin  L(egrand).     (1870-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Best  Man.    Sun.    Aug. 
♦True  Blood.    Mun.    Dec. 

♦Saltykov,  M.  Y.     ("  N.  Schedrin.") 

♦♦♦Hungry  Officials  and  the  Accommodating  Muzhik,  The.    {R.) 
C.  O.    Sept. 

♦"  Sapper." 
♦♦Awakening  of  John  Walters,  The.    Col.    Nov.  3. 
♦Point  of  Detail,  A.    Col.    Aug.  4. 

Sawmill,  Myra. 

Acid  Test,  The.    Am.    Feb. 

Sawyer,  Ruth.    (Mrs.  Albert  C.  Durand.)     (1880-       .)     {See 
1915  and  1916.) 

♦♦Man  Who  Wouldn't  Die,  The.    L.  H.  J.    April. 
♦Wee  Lad  on  the  Road  to  Arden,  The.    L.  H.  J.    March. 

Saxby,  Charles.     {See  1916.) 

♦Reginald  Sydney  and  the  Enemy  Spy.    Sh.  St.    Oct. 

♦ScAPiNELLi,  Count  Carl. 

Russian  Lead.     N.  Y.  Trib.    Feb.  11. 
ScHAicK,  George  Van.    {See  Van  Schaick,  George.) 
♦"  Schedrin,  N."    {See  Saltykov,  M.  Y.) 


590  THE    YEARBOOK 

Schneider,  Herman.    (1872-       .) 
♦♦Arthur  McQuaid,  American.    Outl.    May  23. 
♦♦♦Shaft  of  Light,  A.    Outl.    Aug.  22. 
Schneider,  Louis. 

♦Their  Piece  of  Art.    B.  C.    March. 

Scott,  Harold  H. 

♦Checkmate.    Sun.    Feb. 
Scott,  Leroy.  (1875-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Fate  of  Mary  Regan,  The.    Met.    Nov. 

Golden  Doors,  The.    Met.    May. 

Life  Pulls  the  Strings.    Met.    March. 

Mary  Goes  Alone.    Met.    July. 

Master  of  Dreams,  The.    Met.    Oct. 

Return  of  Mary  Regan,  The.    Met.    Feb. 

Squire  of  Dames,  The.    Met.    Sept. 

Testing  of  Mary  Regan,  The.    Met.    Aug. 
Scott,  Mildred  Wilkes. 

"  In  Time."    Del.     Sept. 
Scott,  Rose  Naomi.    {See  1916.) 

♦♦Chasm  of  a  Night,  The.    So.  Wo.  M.    Oct. 
Sears,  Mary. 

Expectations.     {R.)     Mir.    Aug.  31. 
♦Seefeld,  Hans. 

"  In  the  Woods  Stands  a  Hillock."    N.  Y.  Trib.    Feb.  4- 

Shawe,  Victor. 

Book  and  the  Believers,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  2. 
Sheldon,  Mary  Boardman. 

♦Aunts  Redundant.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 
Shepherd,  William  Gunn. 

♦Bell,  The.    Bel.    Feb.  17. 
♦♦♦Scar  that  Tripled,  The.    Met.    July. 
Shipp,  Margaret  Busbee. 

Kitten  in  the  Market,  A.     Ev.    Aug. 

Showerman,  Grant.     (1870-        .)     {See  1916.) 
♦♦♦Country  Christmas,  A.    Cen.     Dec. 

♦♦Old  Neighbors.    Mid.    Oct. 

♦♦Summertime.     Mid.     Sept. 
♦Simpson,  Horace  J. 

Epic  of  Old  Cark,  The.    B.  C.    April. 
Simpson,  John  Lowrey. 

♦♦Holiday  in  France,  A.    N.  Rep.    Oct.  20. 
♦Sinclair,  May.     (See  1915.) 

♦♦Portrait  of  My  Uncle.    Cen.    Jan. 


INDEX   OF   SHORT   STORIES  591 

SiNGMASTER,  ElSIE.      (ElSIE  SiNGMASTER  LeWARS.)       (187^  .) 

{See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Christmas  Angel,  The.    Pict.  R.    Dec. 
♦♦Eye  of  Youth,  The.    B.  E.  T.    Sept.  19. 
♦♦♦Flag  of  Eliphalet,  The.    B.  E.  T.    May  29. 

♦House  of  Dives,  The.    Bel.    Nov.  10. 
Skinner,  Constance  (Lindsay).    {See  19 15.) 
♦Label,  The.    E.  W.    March  19. 

♦"  Skitalets."     (Stepan  Gavrilovich  Petrov.) 
♦♦♦And  the  Forest  Burned.    Rus.  R.    Feb. 

Slyke,  Lucille  Van,    {See  Van  Slyke,  Lucille.) 

Smith,  Elizabeth  C.  A.    {See  "  Breck,  John.") 

Smith,  Gordon  Arthur.    (1886-       .)     (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦End  of  the  Road,  The.    Scr.    Aug. 
♦♦♦Friend  of  the  People,  A.    Pict.  R.    Oct. 

Smith,  Kate. 

♦Near  the  Turn  of  the  Road.    For.    June. 

Sneddon,  Robert  W.    (1880-       .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Bright  Star  of  Onesime.    Sn.  St.    Oct.  18. 

♦Doll,  The.    Sn.  St.    June  4. 

♦"  I  Shew  You  a  Mystery."    Sn.  St.    Oct.  4. 
♦♦Le  Rabouin  —  Soldier  of  France.    S.  E.  P.    May  12. 
♦♦♦"  Mirror !    Mirror !    Tell  Me  True  !  "    Bel.    Feb.  3. 
♦♦Mute,  The.    Bel.    Dec.  15. 

♦Nest  for  Ninette,  A.    Par.    June. 
♦♦Prosperity's  Pinch.    Par.    Oct. 

♦Two  Who  Waited,  The.    Sau.  St.    Oct. 

.Sothern,  Edward  Hugh.     (1859-       .) 
Lost  and  Found.    Scr.    Aug. 

♦SouTAR,  Andrew.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦♦Behind  the  Veil.    To-day.    Dec. 
♦Ingrate,  The.    L  S.  M.    June  24. 
My  Lady's  Kiss.    Pict.  R.    Dec. 
♦♦Step  on  the  Road,  The.    Pict.  R.    July. 

Spadoni,  Adriana.    {See  1915  and  1916.) 
Foreladies.    Masses.    March. 

Spears,  Raymond  Smiley.     (1876-       .) 
♦"  Levee  Holds !    The."    Col.    Nov.  10. 
♦Miller  of  Fiddler's  Run,  The.    Col.    Aug.  11. 

Springer,  Fleta  Campbell.    {See  Campbell,  Fleta.) 

Springer,  Norman.    {See  191 5-) 
♦Recruit.  A.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  10. 


592  THE   YEARBOOK 

*  Star,  Mark." 
***Garden  of  Sleep,  The.    Pag.    April-May. 
Starrett,  William  Aiken.     (1877-        .) 

**Marked-"Shop."     Atl.     July. 
Stearns,  L.  D. 

*Game,  The.    So.  Wo.  M.    Aug. 
Stearns,  M.  M.  (See  "  Amid,  John.') 
Steele,  Alice  Garland.     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
**Homing  Bird.  The.    VVom.  W.    Nov. 
Miracle  of  It,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Oct. 
Mrs.  Deering's  Answer.    Ev.    Aug. 
Steele,  Rufus  (Milas).     (1877-        .)     (Set  1915.)  • 
Young  Man's  Game,  A.     S.  E.  P.     Nov.  3. 

Steele.  Wilbur  Daniel.     (1886-        .)     (See  191$  and  1916.) 
***Ching,  Ching.  Chinaman.     Pict.  R.    June. 
***Devil  of  a  Fellow,  A.    Sev.  A.    April. 
***Down  on  Their  Knees.     (R.)     I.  S.  M.    Aug.  5. 
***Free.     Gen.    Aug. 
**HaIf  Ghost.  The.    Harp.  M.    July. 
***Ked's  Hand.    Harp.  M.    Sept. 
*** Point  of  Honor,  A.    Harp.  M.    Nov. 
***White  Hands.    Pict.  R.    Jan. 
***Woman  at  Seven  Brothers,  The.    Harp.  M.    Dec. 

Steffens,    (Joseph)    Lincoln.      (1866-        .)      (See    1915    and 

19 16.) 
***Bunk.    Ev.    Feb. 

***Great  Lost  Moment,  The.     Ev.     March. 
Stern,  Elizabeth  Gertrude. 

**0n  Washington  —  Lincoln's  Birthday.    W.  H.  C.    Feb. 
Stewart,  Alpheus. 

Medal  Winner,  The.    Mir.    Jan.  12. 
Stewart,  Lucy  Shelton. 

*Wolves  of  Bixby's  Hollow.  The.    Am.     Feb. 
Stoddard,  William  Leavitt.     (1884-        .) 
Disciplined.    Ev.    July. 

*Stoker,  Bram.     (Abraham  Stoker.)     (        -1912.) 

**DracuIa's  Guest.     Sh.  St.    Jan. 
Stores,  Caryl  B, 

*Teenie  an'  Aggie  Take  an  Outing.     (R.)    C.  O.    Oct. 
"  Storm,  Ethel." 

**Burned  Hands.    Harp.  B.    Nov. 
Sullivan,  Alan.    (5"^^  1915.) 
***Only  Time  He  Smiled,  The.    E.  W.    Dec.  31. 


INDEX    OF    SHORT    STORIES  593 

Sullivan,  Francis  William.     (See  1915.) 

Godson  of  Jeannette  Gontreau,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Oct. 

*SwiNTON,  Lt.  Col.  Ernest  Dunlop.    ("  Eye- Witness.")    (1868- 
.)     {See  1915  under  "  Eye-Witness.") 
♦Private  Riley.     Sh.  St.    June. 

Synon,  Mary.     (1881-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
***Clay-Shattered  Doors.     Scr.    July. 
***End  of  the  Underground,  The.    G.  H.    June. 
***None  So  Blind.    Harp.  M.    Oct. 
♦One  of  the  Old  Girls.    Harp.  B.    May. 
♦♦Wallaby  Track,  The.    Scr.    Feb. 


Taber,  Elizabeth  Stead. 
♦♦♦Scar,  The.    Sev.  A.    Jan. 

Tarkington,    (Newton)    Booth.     (1869-        .)      (5"^^   79/5  and 
1916.) 

♦Fairy  Coronet,  The.     Met.    March. 
♦Only  Child,  The.    Ev.    Jan. 
♦Sam's  Beau.    Cos.    April. 
♦Walter-John.    Cos.     Nov. 

Tassin,  Algernon.     {See  1915.) 
♦♦Winter  Wheat.    G.  H.    Jan. 

Taylor,  Arthur  Russell.     (        -1918.) 
Mr.  Smiley.    Atl.    Nov. 
♦♦Mr.  Squem.     Atl.    June. 
♦Mr.  Thornton.    Atl.    Sept. 

Taylor,  John. 

♦U.  S.  Harem  Association,  Ltd.,  The.    Scr.    May. 
Taylor,  Mary  Imlay. 

♦Aunt  Lavender's  Meeting  Bonnet.    Y.  C.    Feb.  i. 

♦Tchekov,   Anton    Pavlovitch.      (1860-1904.)      {See   1915  and 

19 16.) 
♦♦♦Dushitchka.     Pag.    Sept. 
♦♦♦Old  Age.     {R.)     Mir.    Feb.  2. 

♦♦Trousseau,  The.     {R.)    Touch.    Aug. 

♦"  Teffie." 

♦Teacher,  The.    Outl.    Oct.  17. 

Terhune,  Albert  Payson.     (1872-       .) 
Caritas.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  15. 
Night  of  the  Dub,  The.    S  E.  P.    March  31. 
♦"  Quiet."    Pict.  R.    July. 


594  THE   YEARBOOK 

Terrell,  Maverick.     {See  Marshall,  Rachael,  and  Terrell, 

Maverick.) 
Terrvt,  Katherine.    {See  1915  and  J916.) 
*Leaf  in  the  Wind,  A.    I.  S.  M.    Oct.  14. 

Tharp,  Vesta.     {See  19 16.) 

Connie  Cuts  a  Wisdora-Tooth.    Scr.    Jan. 
Thayer,  Mabel  Dunham. 

People  and  Things.    Met.    Aug. 
♦Thomas,  Edw^ard.     ("  Edw^ard  Eastaway.")     (1878-1917.) 
♦♦♦Passing  of  Pan,  The.     {R.)    Mir.    Dec.  14. 
Thomas,  (Stanley  Powers)  Rowland.     (1879-        .) 

♦Mistress.    Pear.    Nov. 
Thompson,  Lillian  Bennet-.     {See  1916.)     {See  also  Hubbard, 
George,  and  Thompson,  Lillian  Bennet-.) 
♦In  Fifteen  Minutes.    L.  St.    July. 
♦Prisoner,  The.    Sn.  St.    April  4. 
♦Together.    L.  St.    Oct. 

♦"  Thorne,    Guy."      (Cyril    Arthur   Edward   Ranger   Gull.) 
(1876-       .) 

♦♦Guilt.    L  S.  M.    Oct.  28. 
♦Thurston,  Ernest  Temple.   (1879-       .)     {See  191S  and  1916.) 

♦Over  the  Hills.    Ain.    July. 
Thurston,  Mabel  Nelson.    {See  1916.) 
Answer,  The.    E.  W.    July  2. 
♦771.    Am.    Oct. 
Tick  NOR,  Caroline. 

Skaters,  The.    Bel.    Oct.  20. 
TiLDEN,  Freeman.     {See  1915.) 

AflFections  of  Lucile,  The.    E.  W.    June  11. 

Customary  Two  Weeks,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  24-March  3. 

Jitney  Tactics.    E.  W.    Aug.  13. 

Knowledge  of  Beans,  A.    E.  W.    Oct.  8. 

Not  for  Ordinary  Folks.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  27. 

Peggitt  Pays  the  Freight.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 

Stannerton  &  Sons.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  15. 

Thrift  of  Martha,  The.    S.  E.  P.    July  21. 

Titus,  Harold.    {See  19 16.) 

♦Lars  the  Unthinking.    Ev.    May. 

ToLMAN,  Albert  W.    {See  1916.) 

♦After  the  Flash.    Y.  C    Jan.  11. 

♦Painting  Healthy  Hal.    Y.  C.    Sept.  27. 
♦Tolstoi,  Count  Alexis  N.    {See  1916.) 
♦♦Under-Seas.    Bookman.    April. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  595 

♦Tolstoi,  Count  Lyof  Nikolaevitch.     (1828-1910.) 

♦Young  Tsar,  The.    Rus.  R.    July. 
TooKER,  Lewis  Frank.     (1855-        .)     {See  1915  and  1916.) 
*Home-Makers,  The.    Scr.    March. 
♦Immoral  Reformation  of  Billy  Lunt,  The.    Cen.    Jan. 
ToRREY,  Grace. 

Enfranchised.    Sun.    Nov. 
Train,  Arthur  (Cheney).    (1875-       .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Earthquake,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  2g. 
♦Helenka.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  27. 
♦Pillikin.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  i. 
Train,  Ethel.     (Mrs.  Arthur  Train.)     (See  1916.) 

With  Care ;  Fragile.    S.  E.  P.    May  26. 
Trites,  William  Budd.     (1872-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Bleecker  Street  Bleecker,  A.    McC.    Nov. 
Truitt,  Charles. 

♦Omelette  Souffle,  The.    Ev.    Dec. 
TsANOFF,  CoRRiNNE  and  Radoslav. 

♦♦Shoulders  of  Atlas,  The.    Atl.    Jan. 
TuppER,  Edith  Sessions.     (See  1916.) 
♦Black  Waters.    So.  Wo.  M.    April. 
Turnbull,  Archibald  D. 

♦Frangois'  Journey.    Scr.    March. 
♦When  Our  Flag  Came  to  Paris.    Scr.    Nov. 
Turner,  George  Kibbe.    (1869-       .)    See  1915  and  1916.) 
Bull  on  America,  A.    S.  E.  P.    May  19. 
Danger  of  Safety,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  10. 
Little  More  Capital,  A.    S,  E.  P.    April  14. 
Miracle  Peddlers,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  31. 
Turner,  Maude  Sperry. 

Adabee  and  Creation.    Del.    Sept 

U 
Underbill,  Ruth  Murray. 

♦New  Emilia,  The.    Del.    Dec. 
Underwood,  Sophie  Kerr.    (See  Kerr,  Sophie.) 
Uzzell,  Thomas  H.     (See  1915  and  1916.)     (See  also  Uzzell, 
Thomas  H.,  and  Abdullah,  Achmed.) 
End  of  a  Ribbon,  The.    Col.    Aug.  4. 
Switchboard  to  Berlin,  A.    Col.    May  19. 
Uzzell,   Thomas   H.,   and   Abdullah,   Achmed.     (1881-       .) 
(See  also  Abdullah,  Achmed.) 
♦♦Diplomacy.    Col.    Dec.  8. 


596  THE    YEARBOOK 


Vail,  Laurence.    (5"^^  1916.) 
*Selysette.    For.    Aug. 

Van  Campen,  Helen    (Green).     (1883-        .)      (See  19 15  and 
1916.) 
Big-Game  Hut  on  Kenai,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  3. 
Chechako  Wife,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 
George  Bell's  New  Teacher.    S.  E.  P.    March  24. 
Luck  of  a  Sourdough,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Jan.  6. 

Van  Dyke,  Catherine. 

Chaperoning  Mother.    L.  H.  J.    April. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry.     (1852-        .)     {See  1915.) 
**Remembered  Dream,  A.    Scr.    Aug. 

*Vane,  Derek. 

*As  It  Happened.    L  S.  M.    Aug.  19. 

Van  Horne,  Margaret  Varney. 
*Curse,  The.    Mid.    June. 

Van   Loan,   Charles   Emmett.      (1876-       .)      {See   1915  and 
1916.) 
Animal  Stuflf.    S.  E.  P.    May  5. 
Fifth  Reel,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  18. 
Fog.    S.  E.  P.    Feb.  24. 

Gentlemen,  You  Can't  Go  Through !    S.  E.  P.    April  28. 
Little  Poison  Ivy.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  6. 
Major,  D.  O.  S.,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  4. 
Man  Who  Quit,  The.    S.  E.  P.     Nov.  3. 
Not  in  the  Script.    Col.    Sept.  1-8. 
Ooley-Cow,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  17. 
Out  of  His  Class.    Col.    Feb.  3. 
Scene  Two-Fifty-Two.    S.  E.  P.    May  26. 
Stunt  Man,  The.    S.  E.  P.    April  21. 
Thrill  Shooter,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  17. 
Tods.    S.  E.  P.    June  16. 

Van  Loon,  Hendrik  Willem.     (1882-        .)     {See  J916.) 

*Logic  of   Tippoo   Na   Gai,   The.     N.   Rep.     May   12.     Mir. 
June  8. 

Van  Saanen,  Marie  Louise.     ("  Marice  Rutledge.")     {See  1915 
and  1916.) 

**Between  Trains.     Bookman.    June. 
**Little  Blue  Flower,  The.    Touch.    May. 
*"  Rat,  Le."    Touch.    Aug. 
**Soldier.  The.    Bookman.    July. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  597 

Van  Schaick,  George.    (See  1915.) 

Accounting,  The.    Sun.    March. 
Van  Slyke,  Lucille  Baldwin.     (1880-        .)     {See  1916.) 

Regular  Sport,  The.    Col.    March  24. 
Venable,  Edward  Carrington.     {See  19 15  and  1916.) 
**Preface.    Scr.    July. 

Six-Feet-Four.     Scr.    Nov. 

VoRSE,    Mary     (Marvin)     Heaton.       (Mary     Heaton    Vorse 
O'Brien.)     (See  19 15  and  19 16.) 
♦Adventure  in  Respectability,  An.     Harp.  M.    July. 
***Great  God,  The.    W.  H.  C.    March. 
***Pavilion  of  Saint  Merci,  The.    For.    Dec. 
♦Pride.     Harp.  M.     Nov. 


W 

♦Wadslev,  Olive. 

♦Son  of  His.    Sn.  St.    March  18. 
Walcott,  John. 

On  With  the  Dance.    Col.    Sept.  8. 
Wall,  R.  N. 

Ounce  of  Loyalty,  An.    Ev.    Oct. 
Usurper,  The.    S.  E.  P.    June  23. 
♦Wallace,  Edgar.     (1875-        .)     (See  19 15  and  1916.) 
♦Bones  and  a  Lady.    Col.    Aug.  25. 
Breaking  Point,  The.    Col.    Oct.  6. 
♦Case  of  Lasky,  The.    Ev.    Nov. 
♦Coming  of  Miiller,  The.    Ev,    Dec. 
Eye  to  Eye.    Col.    April  7. 
♦Puppies  of  the  Pack.    Ev.     Nov. 
♦Son  of  Sandi,  The.    Col.    Dec.  i. 
♦Strafing  of  Muller,  The.    Ev.    Dec. 
♦Tarn  o'  the  Scoots.    Ev.    Nov.-Dec. 
Waters  of  Madness,  The.    Col.    July  7. 
Warren,  Maude  Radford.    (1875-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
Ideals.    Harp.  M.    Jan. 

Sit  on  a  Cushion  and  Sew  a  Fine  Seam.    Del.    Sept. 
Washburn,  Beatrice. 

♦Until  Six  O'clock.    Bel.    March  31. 
Wasson,  David  A.    (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Bete  Noire,  La.    Bel.    Jan.  27. 
♦Female  of  the  Species,  The.    (/?.)     B.  C.    April. 
Wayne,  Charles  Stokes.   ("  Horace  Hazeltine.")    (1858- 
♦Delicate  Matter,  A.    S.  S.    Jan. 


598  THE   YEARBOOK 

Webster,  Henry  Kitchell.    (1875-       .)     {See  1913  and  1916.) 
Accidental,  The.    Met.    Dec. 
Dorothy  for  the  Day.    Met.    Nov. 
Webster,  Malcolm  B. 

*"  Kaiser's  Masterpiece,  The."    Sti.  St.    March  4. 
Weir,  F(lorence)  Roney.     (1861-        .)     (See  1915.) 

Cavalry  Charge,  A.    Pict.  R.    Dec. 
Welles,  Harriet. 
♦♦Admiral's  Birthday,  The.    Scr.    Dec. 
♦Anchors  Aweigh.     Scr.    Aug. 
♦Holding  Mast.    Scr.    Oct. 
Wells,  Carolyn.    (5"^^  1915-) 

Re-echo  Club,  The.    Harp.  M.    July. 
Wells,  Leila  Burton.     (See  1913  and  1916.) 

♦"  Being  Wicked." .  McC.    Aug. 
Weston,  George.     (1880-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Madame  Pharaoh's  Daughter.    S.  E.  P.    Dec.  i. 
♦♦Medal  of  M.  Moulin,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  25. 
♦♦♦Perfect  Gentleman,  A.    S.  E.  P.    June  9. 

Putting  the  Bee  in  Herbert.    S.  E.  P.    April  28. 
Wharton,  Elna  Harwood.     (See  1916.) 

Great  American  Game,  The.    Del.    May. 
Laura  Intervenes.    Del.    April. 
Wheeler,  Griswold. 

♦Bread  Upon  the  Waters,  The.     B.  C.    Dec. 
White,  Stew^art  Edward.     (1873-        .)     (See  1915.) 
♦Case  of  Mutual  Respect,  A.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  27. 
♦Edge  of  the  Ripple,  The.    Harp.  M.    May. 
♦Forced  Labor.    S.  E.  P.    Sept.  15. 
♦Gunbearer,  The.    S.  E.  P.    Oct.  6. 
♦Naming,  The.    S.  E.  P.    July  21. 
♦Trelawney  Learns.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  18. 
True  Sportsmen.    S.  E.  P.     Sept.  i. 
♦White  Magic.    S.  E.  P.    Aug.  4. 
Whiteside,  Mary  Brent. 

♦Pour  la  Patrie.    So.  Wo.  M.    July. 
Whitson,  Beth  Slater.     (5"^^  1916.) 

♦Beyond  the  Foot  of  the  Hill.    So.  Wo.  M.    June. 
WiDDEMER,  Margaret.     (See  1915.) 
♦Black  Magic.    Sev.  A.    Sept. 
♦♦Fairyland  Heart,  The.    Bel.    Aug.  18. 
WiGGiN,    Kate    Douglas.      (Kate    Douglas    Wiggin    Riggs.) 
(1859-       .) 
♦♦Quilt  of  Happiness,  The.    L.  H.  J.    Dec. 


INDEX   OF    SHORT    STORIES  599 

WiLCOxsoN,  Elizabeth  Gaines. 

♦Mrs.  Martin's  Daughter-in-Law.    E.  W.    Sept  17. 
♦Substitute  Courtship,  A.    Sun.    Feb. 
Wiley,  Hugh. 
♦♦Here  Froggy,  Froggy.    Scr.    Oct. 
♦King  of  Two-By-Four,  The.    Col.    Nov.  3. 
♦Mushroom  Midas,  A.    Scr.    Sept. 
On  the  Altar  of  Hunger.    Scr.    Aug. 
♦Sooey  Pig!    Col.    Sept.  15. 

WiLriNS,  Mary  E.     (See  Freeman,  Mary  EL  Wilkins-.) 
Williams,  Ben  Ames. 

♦♦Mate  of  the  Susie  Oakes,  The.    S.  E.  P.    April  14. 

♦♦Squealer,  The.    Col.    Sept.  i. 

♦♦Steve  Scaevola.    S.  E.  P.    Nov.  24. 

Williams,  Frances  Foster. 

His  Mother.    Sun.    June. 
Willie,  Linda  Buntyn. 

♦Things  We  Hope  For,  The.    Am.    June. 

Wilson,  John  Fleming.    (1877-        .)     (See  1915  and  1916.) 
♦Highroad,  The.    E.  W.    Aug.  20. 
Pain  of  Youth,  The.    E.  W.    April  23. 
Phantom  Circuit,  The.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 
Plain  Jane.    E.  W.    Dec.  10. 
Sea  Power.    S.  E.  P.    March  17. 
War  for  the  Succession,  The.    Col.    April  21. 

Wilson,  Margaret  Adelaide.     (See  1916.) 
♦Mr.  Root.    Bel.    May  26. 
♦Rain-Maker,  The.    Scr.    April. 
♦♦Res  Aeternitatis.    Bel.    Aug.  25. 

Winslow,  Horatio.    (5"^^  1915  and  1916.) 
♦♦Four  on  the  Beach.    Bel.    Nov.  24. 
♦Mrs.  Beddens's  Great  Story.    Col.    Jan.  13. 
♦Woman  Sinister,  The.    Mir.    April  13. 

Winslow,  Thyra  Samter. 

♦End  of  Anna,  The.    S.  S.    Sept. 
♦Pier  Glass,  The.    S.  S.    March. 

WiTWER,  H.  C.    (See  19 16.) 

Alex  Comes  Up  Smiling.    Am.    Dec. 

Alex  the  Great.    Am.    Nov. 

Cup  That  Queers,  The.    Am.    June. 

Cutey  and  the  Beast.    Am.    May. 

Lend  Me  Your  Ears.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 

Maiden's  Prayer.  The.    Am.    Jan. 

Pearls  Before  Klein.     Am.     Aug. 


600  THE   YEARBOOK 

Pleasure  Island.    McC.    Jan. 
Robinson's  Trousseau.    Am.    March. 
Unhappy  Medium,  The.    McC.    April. 
Warriors  All.     S.  E.  P.    July  14. 
Your  Girl  and  Mine.    Am.    Sept. 

♦WoDEHousE,  Pelham  Grenville.     (i88i-       .)     (See  1915  and 
1916.) 
Jeeves  and  the  Hard-Boiled  Egg.    S.  E.  P.    March  3. 

Wolff,  William  Almon.    {See  igi6.) 
Efficient  One,  The.    E.  W.    Jan.  15. 
♦False  Colors.    Col.    Dec.  22. 
High  Cost  of  Peggy,  The.    Ev.    April. 
Luck.    E.  W.    Aug.  6. 
**Man  Who  Found  His  Country,  The.    Ev.    June. 
Play  for  Miss  Dane,  A.    Ev.    Nov. 
Prince's  Tale,  The.    Del.    June. 
Slackers,  The.    Ev.    Aug. 
Unknown  Goddess,  The.    Am.    March. 

WoNDERLY,  W.  Carey.     (See  1915  and  1916.) 

Johnny  Marsh  and  His  Meal  Ticket.    I.  S.  M.    Jan.  21. 

Wood,  Jr.,  Leonard.     (See  19 15.) 
*Until  To-morrow.    Scr.    Jan. 

*Wray,  Roger. 

**Episode,  An.    Cen.    Feb. 
Wyatt,  Phyllis.    (5"^^  Brown,  Phyllis  Wvatt.) 

*Wylie,  L  a.  R.    (See  1916.) 
**Candles  for  St.  Nicholas.    Col.    Dec.  22. 
***Holy  Fire.    G.  H.    Oct. 
***'Melia  No-Good.    G.  H.    July. 
***Return,  The.    G.  H.    Aug. 


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